


Priority One

by leogrl19



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Rival Relationship, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:05:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leogrl19/pseuds/leogrl19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because it's just *so* me, title inspired by song of the same title by the band Only Living Boy. This story will be a series of shorts focusing on the relationship between fem!Hawke and Merrill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gratitude

**Author's Note:**

> Just to recap for mah Merrill/Hawke fans: 
> 
> \- Same leogrl19 from fanfic  
> \- Will be posting all further PO chapters here  
> \- WAKA WAKA

* * *

Another argument.

Senseless. The same issues lazily redressed and reapplied.

How Kirkwall would never be their home.

How the plan to regain their estate was meaningless.

How even considering the two was folly and, surely, her every fault.

She had merely wished to read her favorite tome in peace.

Sigourney Hawke, without a word, marked her place in the thick volume before calmly closing it, her brother continuing to rant and rave even when she finally glanced up to him. He applied a familiar tactic: goading her only to grow increasingly more exasperated when realizing, yet again, that she would not rise to his baiting. Instead, she waited. Waited for a break in that anger when he would no longer allow it to influence his thoughts and they could speak on the matter civilly.

"Well…" he sputtered, a fire without means as his features twisted even more to accommodate his frustrated scowl, "Say something!"

A hand was placed on the tome's cover. "I understand where you're coming from-"

"No, you don't." Belligerent; his temper rose with his voice and she was happy their mother and uncle were out. "You're the eldest – the responsible one everyone's always clamoring for while I'm left to toil in your shadow. Taking care of Mother and dealing with dear Uncle while you're out taming mighty Kirkwall."

She had tried to entertain his opinions to no avail; she agreed and he thought she mocked him, her refusal only antagonizing him more. "And I appreciate your efforts. It's the very reason we've progressed this far."

"Right. I suppose that's why Meeran only speaks to me when he has a job to hand over to you." Carver scoffed, looking every bit the scorned 'second child'. "I put in the same amount of hours with my sword, but, of course, you being the valuable mage means I'm reduced to your lapdog while you get all the recognition."

Sigourney allowed a raised brow to mar her careful expression; she had no knowledge the mercenary leader had still been trying to requisition her through her brother. "I thought I made it clear to Meeran that any dealings we had would be concluded after our year debt. If he's been hounding you, I'll make time to have another talk with him."

"That isn't the point and you know it!"

"You're right." The admission was easy, given to restate their focus. "The point of our talk was to address your frivolous spending habits." The mage frowned, an equal mix of disappointment and discomfort from the unfortunate acquirement of the information by way of Isabela. "The Blooming Rose, Carver?"

He grumpily crossed his arms, but she could still spot the tinge of color on his cheeks. "I'm a man – I have needs like any other. Needs I'm willing to drop a few silvers on to have done right." His scowl deepened. "You won't hear me apologizing for not being the frigid prude you are, Sister."

Another insult ignored. "Is there a reason you can't meet your…'needs' the old fashioned way? You obviously possess the charm when necessary. You even appeared to be doing well with the girls in Lothering."

"Well, I wasn't some refugee in a slum there, was I?" His eyes narrowed. "What business is it of yours where I spend my coin? You don't see me digging my nose into your affairs and telling you where to toss your money – or did you already forget throwing away five whole sovereigns on your little charity?"

"They were our countrymen, bereft of loved ones in the city or a title that could be worked for. Most barely had enough for clothes and food." Lirene's shop had been a sad sight – but her contribution **hadn't** affected her family; she'd made sure of it, cutting down on her already paltry list of necessities so her mother and brother could enjoy their usual comforts. "I'll admit it was a large sum, and, perhaps, hasty on my part, but I don't regret the decision. If there are consequences, I will deal with them as they come."

"There's a surprise." Carver grimaced, as if her every word was fashioned to slight him. "Even when putting yourself down, you're still the bloody saint." He turned away. "If you want to save your bits and assert yourself as head of the family, fine, but I never wanted to be in this blighted city and I don't believe in this 'new life' you and Mother are pushing for. I won't waste my time working for an old title for an old woman."

Dark brows furrowed, emotion finally touching her expression. "Mother sacrificed everything for us; speak of me as you will, but you will give her the respect she deserves."

Her brother spun back to her, ire evident. "I am _not_ a child!"

"Then convince me otherwise and stop behaving as one." Sigourney shook her head. "Why do you do this – fight me at every turn as if we're enemies? I am your sister, Carver: I care for you and only want what's best for our family with what we have to work with. We can build a new life here, secure a new home-"

"We had a home! And even Mother didn't want anything to do with this city until you got us dumped here! If you'd done it right, we'd still be in Lothering. Instead we ran away like you wanted when we should have stood our ground."

"Stood our ground against a Blight?" This was exactly what she predicted: his words weren't even making sense now, a misguided anger doing the talking for him. "You saw what the darkspawn did to Lothering, how many weren't as fortunate as us to escape when we had."

"Then you should have thought of something! You're so bloody perfect – you should have been able to defend what was ours." The coals that were his eyes narrowed dangerously. "Instead, you only turned out to be the reason Bethany was killed."

Resentment.

Accusation.

It all a sharp, staggering pain, a blade in her heart that he _twisted_. How he could just stand there – act as if she had not done everything – given _everything_.

**_Everything_**.

It churned inside her, an indignation so **thick** , a betrayal so _deep_ …

Until it was gone. Buried in a spot no one could touch; leaving a profound numbness in its wake.

She stared at him, the familiar cold of aloof claiming her body, and he blanched, there almost a moment of regret before he regained himself – but it was already too late.

The game was now over.

Sigourney withdrew her steely gaze, wordlessly rising from the chair and gathering her tome.

"Running away again, Sister?" Biting. Fruitless.

"Make sure you're here when Mother returns." The volume was placed in her satchel, its strap secured on her shoulder. "She mentioned wanting to see you more."

More words, heated, prideful – none reaching her ears as she made her way out the front door.

* * *

"Hawke!" Merrill carefully tugged on the shoddy door of her new home, opening it fully to better take in the raven hair, the startlingly grey eyes of the human before her. "I didn't think you'd actually come!"

Hawke smiled, warm and kind. "I made a promise."

"You did…But I know how busy you are and how often the people in this city tend to ask you to do things for them, so I wouldn't have been surprised if I slipped your mind." She suddenly shook her head, realizing how that might sound. "Not that I'm saying you don't keep your promises! We never would have met in Sundermount if that were the case – it just tends to happen often, is all. And I wouldn't hold it against you if something more important came up."

"Visiting and making sure you're properly settled here in Kirkwall is important to me, Merrill. I'm happy to be here." Her smile seemed only to grow in its brilliance – its _warmth_ – like being bathed in the sun. "Thank you for inviting me."

"You're welcome – I suppose." It had to be some sort of magic: Hawke always made her feel like her feet were glued to the ground and pulled out from under her all at once…. "Oh!" Creators, she'd been _staring_ , hadn't she? "I'm so sorry – barely opened the door and I'm already turning out to be a terrible host." The elf hurriedly scrambled aside. "Please, won't you come in?" A dubious pause. "That is what others would say in this type of situation, isn't it? I can't say I've ever had a house to invite another into before." She gasped. "I was supposed to offer you a cup of water first, wasn't I?"

"You're doing fine. And that was a lovely invitation." The other stepped inside, fingers brushing the gentle swoop of her dark bangs before eying her ruefully. "Though…I'd like to apologize for coming over at such a late hour. I hope you don't mind."

Was it late? The elf peeked outside her door only to witness the sun had already taken to hiding behind the mountainous walls of the surrounding buildings.

_Mythal, Merrill. You've lost track of time again._

The Keeper had often claimed there never being a moment she was ever fully in Thedas, not when her head would always wander off in the Beyond.

"Merrill?"

"...Yes?" A lazy drawl, the elf not truly paying attention.

"Is it all right if I sit here?"

She blinked…before turning around wide-eyed and nodding her head furiously. "Yes – of course! Sit anywhere you like!" She watched the other gratefully take a chair, wincing when her eyes landed on the utter disarray that was her table – _both_ her tables – sizable tomes and scattered parchments covering every inch of their surfaces – and _Hawke_ in her home. "Sorry – I should have cleaned first." The elf rushed to the table, hurriedly bundling up papers to place them…Where? Her bed, maybe? The floor had plenty of room as well… "I've never done this sort of thing and you're the first to visit, so I'm sure I'll make a complete mess of things." A pause as the elf considered the table again: how was the clutter not going down? " _More_ of a mess of things."

Hawke stilled her hand and Merrill bit back the startled noise from the sudden touch of the other's skin. It soft and so _warm_ …. "Please don't fuss over me; it'll make me feel like even more of a bother. Especially when I'm the one intruding." Gently, the other loosened her grip, taking the stack of papers she'd gathered and setting them back on the table. "I don't mind. In a way, it's… comfortable." She gazed at the clutter fondly. "I tend to do the same, you know."

"I'm sure you don't." It was nearly impossible for the elf to think of her as messy. As anything other than perfect. "Or that you're just trying to make me feel better."

A glance up. "Not at all. I've always been curious, having such a weakness for books and written knowledge in general. Anything that could answer my questions. Even back in Ferelden, any free time I had was devoted to reading theories and dissertations on magic, surrounded by a low wall of books and scrolls. With my-" something – _something_ shifted in her eyes, "Carver would complain, of course. Claiming I took up too much space."

Merrill couldn't help studying the woman, wanting to catch that illusive thing she saw, decipher the expression given now. She looked…She _looked_ … "Sad."

_Lonely_.

Another smile; the human possessed two: this one happened to be the trickster. "Do I?"

"It's your expression, I think. It didn't quite reach your eyes…" the words slipped from her lips as if it were the most natural thing, still staring into those fathomless, grey pools. Cool. Piercing. _A tamed tempest_. Merrill suddenly colored, mind catching up with her words. "I didn't mean to pry."

"You did." Her gaze was like the sharp end of a blade. "But it was well intentioned."

"Yes, but – um…" by the Dread Wolf, if her face were any warmer, it would surely melt! "Water. Now would be a good time for it, I think, if not when you first walked in." And now she was babbling; she turned away, regretfully reclaiming her hand as she headed to obtain two cups. "Would you like some?"

"I'd love some." And when she smiled, it was like the sun decided to shine again.

Merrill's lips curled upward as well, not realizing she had a choice otherwise. "Oh, good. It would have been terribly awkward if you'd wanted something else."

Hawke began to survey the space around her with those sharp grey eyes and the Dalish suddenly felt self-conscious, as if she were the one responsible for the poor condition of the house. "How is it here?"

"Not bad. Just…different." She would not allow herself to appear ungrateful – and she would not let herself complain…Even if she did dislike Kirkwall. Not when the other had done so much for her. "The city, the people – it'll just take a bit of getting use to, is all."

"I wish I was able to find you better living conditions. The elder of this alienage assured me that this was the best he could do on such short notice, but I'm not so sure." Her gaze settled on the roaring fire before looking up to three bared windows with a frown. "That you're forced to live in this part of the city…"

"It isn't that different from the Lowtown humans live in. Except, of course, the gate in the front, and the large amount of impoverished elves, and roofs that could fly away at any moment – but all that just adds to the excitement, really. And, when I think about it, it's not so different from camping outside. I can still feel the wind against my skin at night and there's always a variety of critters about." It wasn't _pretty_ , perhaps, but it was all she had now. Though seeing as the other mage's frown only set further, it was probably best to change the subject. "You don't have your staff. Did you get here all right? You didn't run into any trouble, did you?"

"No; an advantage of our homes being relatively close, I'm sure. There are a lot of eyes around these parts and a good number of them belong to templars. I don't know if they think poorer mages more desperate, but I find it wise not to carry my staff while in the city." But that was so _dangerous!_ What if there were large, scary men looking for trouble or – or…an _ogre_! Varric had mentioned Hawke fought one of those in an alleyway before; the other seemed to read her thoughts. "I do carry a dagger, however, and I'm practiced with it so there's no need to worry. This hasn't been the first place I've lived where it would be…disadvantageous to reveal my abilities."

"You're so clever. I'm all but useless without my staff in a fight." Maybe she should invest in a dagger…though, she could only see hurting herself more than her enemies; Merrill headed back to the table, clearing a small space for which to set the other's cup. "I boiled it – twice – even though it might still seem a bit…cloudy." The elf sighed, even as Hawke thanked her and drank of the cup's contents with no hesitation. "I promised myself I would find a way to thank you properly when you came to visit and, so far, I've only offered you a cup of water."

Another curious expression: the human, for a moment, looked a bit lost, as if she didn't know what to do with her words – before simply smiling again. "You're very sweet."

"Not as sweet as you. That is," her eyes bashfully flicked elsewhere, "good wishes are a poor substitute for gratitude what with everything you've done for me."

"I've only done what's decent, Merrill; there's no need to laud that. Speaking of," she reached for the strap on her shoulder, sliding it down before placing the bag in her lap, "I brought you something. There was a vendor on the way here." A clothed bundle was gingerly set on the table. "Have you eaten?" Merrill shook her head, feeling rather sheepish. There had been that piece of bread earlier…. "Here. It isn't much, but…" she frowned, not liking the way Hawke looked…disappointed in herself, "it is better than nothing."

As two dinner rolls were revealed, the elf was suddenly struck with the desire to ask the other woman if it were tiring being so absolutely flawless; it was certainly tiring being the exact opposite. "Oh, I couldn't. Not when you're just as bad off."

"It's fine, Merrill." She beckoned her to sit, spreading the cloth so that it was between the two of them. "And I'd feel better knowing you'd eaten."

It was that spell again as she found herself nodding, taking the other chair and moving it closer before taking a seat. "Thank you."

Hawke nodded with a smile, neatly tearing off a piece of her roll. "This will be...our very first feast. I think we've outdone ourselves."

Merrill laughed – because this was clearly not a feast. Because it was a bit pathetic and they surely both knew it, but they would ignore all that for now. "I think you're right. Whatever will we do for the next one?" It was, perhaps, a meager meal – but it was still the best she had had in her new home, and somehow, the bread tasted sweeter with company. "It's very tasty. And soft. The kind I usually have is sour and hard to chew."

The other mage tore another piece of her roll thoughtfully. "Merrill…How would you feel about us doing this every week?"

"Eating rolls and drinking murky water?"

A smile. "Not necessarily those two each time, but once a week, having meals like this. Just the two of us."

She nodded, trying not to appear too eager. "I'd like that – when you'd have the time for it, of course."

"I'm sure I'd always find time for you."

And it was so pure, so completely unexpected, the elf could only blink…before blushing furiously.

That…She couldn't…Had that been something _dirty_?

Whether merciful or oblivious, the other continued on. "It worries me that you'll be spending so much time alone here – especially when you've just moved to this city. I may not be able to change where you live, but, at the very least, I can keep you company in it."

"Thank you…I never had many friends – people who actually wanted to spend time with me – it's usually the other way around." Her mind wandered to Mahariel and Tamlen…But those were dark thoughts. "Even in my clan. I…didn't fit in very well." If she looked at it that way, it hadn't been so terrible to leave: how could it be when she'd never truly fit with the others – never found her way?

"Is there a reason why?" It was…kind how Hawke appeared confused, but she knew she was about as interesting as a holey sock.

"I probably didn't try hard enough. And being the Keeper's First set me even further apart. I was trained to focus on our history and lore, as well as ancient magics, while the others learned the way of the Vir Tanadahl or mastered a trade."

"Do the Dalish alienate their mages as well?"

"No, no – my people see magic as a gift from the Creators, something to be cherished and used for the good of the clan. It's why Keepers are considered leaders. Something I'd be just awful at, I'm sure." She still hadn't any idea why the Keeper chose her out of all the other candidates for First. "I've never been good with people. Always saying something wrong or making a complete idiot of myself…"

"You're not a failure if you're not the best at something, Merrill. And there's nothing to say you won't only improve from here." The elf was once again astounded by that 'sureness' in Hawke's voice, how she seemed to command things into being with sheer confidence. "It's unfortunate that you didn't fit in with your clan, but you have people who care for you now in Kirkwall – and every opportunity to make a fresh start."

Merrill frowned, disappointed in herself; to have been so adamant to go to Kirkwall only to doubt now – oh, she must have looked like such a fool! "You're right. I'll just have to do the best that I can for my clan here, make the most of this." All of it: leaving her clan, living in this miserable place – it was all for the good of her people. And what proper Dalish was a stranger to sacrifice? "Thank you, Hawke. I…needed to hear that."

"We're friends, Merrill. I'll try to help you any way I can."

And there was that _sureness_ and that _smile_ and that utter _honesty_ all in one, that the elf could do nothing more than nod her gratitude.

That is, before she realized it was now even darker outside than before and that silver glow across the floorboards was from the moon.

" _Elgar'nan_ , I've completely forgotten the time again! You should go – not that I want you to leave! I've just learned from living here that the city guard closes that large gate at the entrance each night and won't open it again until morning. I wouldn't want you to be stuck here."

The other's gaze fell heavily to the floor as if already condemning herself for what she'd yet to put into words. "Would it…be all right if I stayed here tonight?"

"Here?" She squeaked. "In my house? For the night?" The mere thought was…Well, _unbelievable_.

Hawke's brow furrowed, and she couldn't quite tell if she was upset or embarrassed. "You can say no, Merrill. I've inconvenienced you enough as is."

"No!" She wanted to bite her tongue, punish it for being such a bane. "Not 'no' as in 'no, you can't stay', but 'no' as in 'no, it's fine, really'! I just don't know where you'd sleep. I wouldn't let you lie on the floor and I only have one bed." The slightest pause as she looked in the direction of her room. "Well, I suppose we could sleep together." The heat at her cheeks was so immediate it was almost painful. "Both be asleep in bed together. Sharing a bed – I'll just stop now."

Hawke actually chuckled and she felt the molten warmth shoot to her ears. "I understand. If you aren't against it, I could sleep in this chair." She gathered the crumb-filled cloth on the table, replacing it with a large book from her bag. "I brought a tome to read and I'm not actually tired yet, so I'm sure I'll be fine here."

"Do you think I could…maybe join you?"

That smile that rivaled the sun. "Of course."

Merrill smiled back, turning to one of the many books she owned that was sprawled open, turning several pages until she found where she last stopped. It had been a volume she'd discovered on the days of Arlathan, most of it focusing on ancient artifacts, but, frustratingly enough, nothing concrete on Eluvians….

"…Thank you."

"Oh, you're quite welcome." She answered smoothly before suddenly glancing up. "What did I do, exactly?"

Hawke didn't look up from her tome. "You didn't ask why."

"Ah. Well, it's really none of my business. Though I am glad it made you visit."

The other woman gave a nod she almost thought she imagined and continued reading.

Merrill did the same, her head unconsciously taking in the words she read, but not really focusing on them. Letting Hawke stay in her home…She couldn't really consider it a kindness – but if it had helped her in some way, then that was enough. Even if only a step in the right direction before she could finally find a way to properly express her gratitude.

Until then-

_Thank you, Hawke._


	2. Connections

"Sigourney…"

Distant.

 _Tired_.

"Mother?" The knife was paused, the mage neglecting the even row of cut vegetables, "Is something wrong?"

"No, dear, nothing wrong, just…" the interval was too long, the other refusing to turn from her seat at the fireplace, "You'll sit with me for a while, won't you?"

Sigourney felt her brow furrow – before it was relaxed – something was wrong. What was wrong?

Would this be another **bad** day?

The knife was deliberately set aside; she wouldn't allow it. "Of course."

"Darling girl." The upturn of her mother's lips was a fleeting accomplishment, her approach unacknowledged still as the older woman continued to stare ahead, seeing something in the dying embers she could not. "It's times like these I'd like to think you'll never outgrow your fool mother…." A pointed glance and the dismal ashes were consumed, a measured fire kindling whatever thoughts they provided; a familiar look was finally directed her way, the trance broken. "Sit. I've been eying that hair of yours and its high time you had a brush to it before it becomes more of a fright." Sigourney wordlessly acquiesced, knowing there was more to this, knowing things were not at all what they seemed, but willing to do what it took to keep the darkness at bay; thick bristles forged their path, designated sections brushed repeatedly with a sigh. "There's a certain comfort in knowing some things never change. All this lovely hair, riddled with tangles…" mournful, the same tone that always made her feel petty and unsure, "Exactly the same as when you were younger."

"I suppose I've never cared for it as I should." Her fingers grazed the straight, dark strands resting at her shoulder, curious to the appeal of something that had always been an afterthought. Unnecessary. "I'll attempt better in the future."

"You've made that promise before, dear." Leandra reminded, brushing the front of her hair in an upward arc. "I'll never understand why you choose to hide your face like this. How will you catch sight of a suitable husband with these long bangs in your eyes?" Each rebellious strand was gathered and bundled behind her ears until her mother sighed happily. "You really have become such a beauty. There isn't a man in this city who wouldn't run begging for your hand."

A flush, her gaze shifting from such scrutiny. "I haven't given much thought to those sort of…ventures."

"But those are things a woman your age should be thinking about."

"Even as a mage?" The grip on her hair loosened, the dark strands spilling over her eyes once more. "I'm not like other women my age, Mother. I never will be." Always different, always on guard: it was not lamentable; she had come to terms with it. "And it will always be safer for me to blend into crowds rather than stand out in them." The silence left in the wake of her words was almost palpable – would she turn her mother against her now as well? So soon after…Sigourney bit the inside of her cheek. "Have I…disappointed you?"

"No." But it was not convincing…Her mother's hands slid from her hair to cradle her face. "No, dear, you could never disappoint me. I know how hard it was for you and…Bethany." Just the name, the memories that followed, made everything painful. "All I've ever wanted was to give the two of you a normal life, for us to be a normal family. I wanted you both to know what it was like to only have to worry about yourselves, despite your magic." It was never subtle: the guilt, how every word strained with its burden. "I've already failed Bethany…But you, Sigourney:" fingers beckoned that she turn, "this will be a new start. Here, you'll worry more about yourself – of your future. As will I…But you working all hours of the night, taking these awful jobs that could kill you if you aren't careful," the other frowned, brows weighted with concern, "I don't want this for the rest of your life."

"It won't be, Mother." Possibly. Maybe. "Doing what I could for our family – it was never a burden."

A smile, pleased and sad all at once. "Of course you would say that. Sometimes I wonder if you even know what it is to think of yourself. You've always been so earnest." She sighed. "There's never been a moment I didn't think you grew up far too fast, however. Ever since your father died…" another moment, all pain, "He would be so proud of you."

"I'm not so sure." The state her family was in now: living in near poverty, without a true home…the mage could not see him approving. This was not her best – she had to do better.

Always **better**.

"I am." A hand was gently laid on her head, tugging her from her thoughts. "You've always been too hard on yourself. You and Carver both, for that matter. Always having something to prove." A wry chuckle. "He thinks I'm smothering him, you know. It could be time I come to terms with the fact that he isn't my little soldier anymore. Not when he's trying so hard to push me away…."

"He has been more…argumentative, of late." The comment was fact, lacking strong emotion just as she willed it; in truth, her relationship with her brother seemed only to grow worse with each passing day. There had been a time when she could reason with him, a strained, but evident peace – but that now seemed all but past.

"Be patient with him. I know it isn't always easy, but, in the end, you and I are all he has left." A second sigh. "I only wish you knew how much he truly does respect you. He just wants to be recognized for his own merits."

"And I only wish the same." Did he think otherwise? That she wished to hold him back? She had told him directly that wasn't the case and still he made everything into a competition.

As if taking care of their family was a task to be **_won_**.

"I know you do. But you live a very particular way, having a will and self control few others possess; it's sometimes hard for him to have to compete with his sister. Not everyone can live up to your standards, dear."

"Not everyone needs to."

Her mother kissed her head; a concession. "Promise me you'll go out. Spend some time with those new friends of yours – or visit Aveline: it's been ages since I've heard anything about her from you. I even remember Carver mentioning some event at that tavern down the way he appeared excited about. You should go along with him; you know how I worry and Maker knows the two of you could do with a bit of bonding."

"I…" there were other things she could be doing – should be doing to secure their new life in Kirkwall – and something told her the entire ordeal would go amiss. But – if it made her mother happy…. "Yes. After I finish preparing the stew for dinner, I'll do as you ask."

"Such a good girl."

Sigourney smiled.

Her mother smiled.

The mage rose, hoping at least one of their expressions were real. 

* * *

 

"You're a very strange girl, do you know that?'

"I do." An easy admission. "At least, I hear it often enough that I've gone and assumed it must have some truth to it. Otherwise, so many wouldn't spend the time to actually say it – not when everyone's always so busy in this city, scrambling about as they do…" green eyes actively searched the unkempt clinic, the elf never granted an opportunity to get a good look at it before, "wouldn't you think?"

"…Right." Merrill winced as Anders dabbed her foot with…It was acid, wasn't it? It had to be with the way it bit at her flesh – how strange that human ointments had a tendency to hurt more as they got better! Nothing at all like Dalish salves that always seemed to sneak up and heal you. "You'd think you'd learn your lesson by now, is what I meant." The damp cloth was removed, soiled further with blood. "Why not just buy proper shoes like the rest of us?"

"There was no need for it, mostly. The Dalish usually don't leave sharp bits of glass lying around for anyone to step on. It's mostly twigs and rocks that cause the more serious injuries." A ghost of a smile, the human missing the expression entirely as he continued to clean the cut. "Is it so uncommon? You're not the first to mention it – merchants I've come across have asked the same. I've never been able to tell why they're so insistent…Though, I suppose I can understand why humans like to protect their feet from all that cold, hard stone. It really is the most dreadful feeling." Lifeless grounds purposely made for people to walk on each and every day – the mere thought was beyond her. She personally loved the variety of soils that met her bare feet, the feeling of firm, supple 'alas' beneath making her feel...grounded.

The other turned to fetch some clean wrappings. "Why were you wandering around Darktown in the first place? This isn't the sort of place for a person like you."

"I wasn't! At least…I hadn't meant to – I never mean to. But there's always something new to look at, and then, of course, one has to think about what they've seen to appreciate it and that's where the trouble begins – in the thinking. The people here don't seem to think anymore on where they're going so long as they get there…." It was such a sad thought, really. "But while I was supposed to be out buying bread without those little nibbles from rats in it, I ended up down here of all places. Not that it's surprising, really, what with everything being as large and obtrusive as it is. It took close to four hours to find my way back to the alienage the last time I found myself lost." A pause, the elf flexing the toes of her suspended foot. "Do you like it here, Anders? Everything's so…dismal. So… _dark_. Oh!" Her eyes lit up from the discovery.

"Unless you consider being imprisoned, constantly watched and eventually made into a mindless slave 'brighter', I can deal with a bit of darkness." It was said in his usual way, as if her every word was worthless and unnecessary – as if she knew nothing. "Besides, from what I hear, your alienage isn't too far off."

"The templars don't bother me at all, really – to them, I'm just another elf." He frowned; she smiled. "It must be nice not having to worry about a sudden chill in the evening or the roof constantly leaking on your head when it rains…But I don't think I could do without the sun – or go without seeing the sky for such long periods. There are flowers that thrive in shade, of course, but I haven't managed to spot any down here." The wrappings around her foot were suddenly much tighter. "Have you thought of planting a few around your clinic? I'm sure it would be lovely to see a bit more color around here."

"Why not? I've heard claims that gardening's supposed to be therapeutic. Exactly what your average apostate in hiding needs. Maybe I'll even invite a few templars over to help pick weeds." She was almost sure that was 'sarcasm': templars would be _terrible_ at gardening – especially so since they wore those bulky, metal cans. "This is the only place I can run a clinic without being clasped in arms. Not that it's, by any means, a secret. If anything, I'm surprised I haven't been brought in by Kirkwall's new captain of the guard."

"Aveline would never betray one of her friends." Not that she could really say she and the guardswoman were friends, exactly…. "You'll be fine. I'm sure of it."

"Coming from you, I can't tell if you're being serious or not." Derisive. Typical. "Do you really think she'd be associated with people like us by choice? Or that she'd put either of us ahead of her precious laws? If you _ever_ did something that would make her choose between you and her position, she wouldn't hesitate handing you over to the Knight Commander herself."

"I don't believe that." She couldn't. "Hawke's a mage too – I could never see Aveline doing those sorts of things to her."

"You're not her." And even more than the scorn, there was such obvious longing for the one he spoke of; she wondered if the other woman would find the stark emotions endearing. Probably not. "Aveline's on her side because they're two of a kind; even as a mage, Hawke would put what others have dictated as 'right' above defending one of her own." The last of her bandage was tied off. "We both know what happened to that mage with the nightmares when his only wish was to live a life free of the Circle."

Merrill frowned. The exchange between Hawke and that poor half-blood had been…distasteful.

 _Sanctimonious_.

The woman had a way of judging: sharp; cold – making her shiver from its certainty. But that was just a side. Because before the judgement, the other would go to any lengths, smile in her wonderful way and make you _want_ to trust her.

Until one no longer knew what to believe.

Anders scoffed, interpreting her lack of response as another denial. "Hide from the truth if you'd like. Just as you hide those." Brown eyes narrowed on the reveal in her chain mail, the barest hint of a thin, white scar disappearing up her arm. "Blood magic."

It was instinct, her hand covering the spot. "Don't tell Hawke."

Hadn't she meant 'Aveline'? They'd been talking about her, hadn't they?

"She'd look at me badly if I did. But she will find out eventually. I don't suspect it will be pleasant." He sighed, massaging the deep creases in his forehead. "Tell me it was an accident. That you didn't willingly go to a demon."

"It would be a lie if I said yes." It was not the first time the man wished to rationalize her actions so they would fit his own needs. What a selfish way of helping someone. "I went to the only source that could guide me, the only place that could give me answers. So, it's not about trust. Not really. It's merely a means to an end."

"Even you can't be that foolish! Weren't you exiled from your clan from this? A person with the barest shred of sense would think that enough to show the dangers of the path you walk."

She studied him. "It isn't wise to speak of things you know nothing about." A light tug to the knot of her bandages. "I know what I'm doing. Just as you claim with your own spirit." The elf removed her foot from his grasp; she was wasting her breath – how could a human ever understand her sacrifice? "I'll be leaving now. Thank you for the healing."

Merrill placed weight on her foot, wincing once more from the uncomfortable twinge left behind before reclaiming her sole less shoe and taking her leave.

* * *

"'Take back our streets'…" grey eyes trailed the badly copied leaflet, "Another 'righteous' appeal from these 'Friends of Kirkwall'." Sigourney glanced up, the folded parchment set aside. "Will they be a problem?"

"Zealots with free time on their hands." Aveline dismissed, reviewing a document before adding her signature. "Most convinced Fereldan refugees will steal their jobs – that, or using hatred to mask their fear of the Qunari presence in the city." The other's quill paused in its scribbling to be dipped again in ink. "No question they're narrow-minded, but for now, they're more bark than bite."

"Yet it is that prejudice which concerns me. And I believe we both know how quickly Kirkwall grows malcontent when possessing nothing to look down upon." She knew the validity of her words – could step out and see them to be true. Mages, elves, Qunari: they each held the danger of ignorance in common, an ignorance in which far too many appeared to revel. "Were you aware you are their latest 'scourge'? You can imagine how well a group, with moral standards such as theirs, has taken to the idea of the new captain of the guard being Fereldan. Said position earned by publicly displacing a fellow native."

"Next you'll say I'm the personification of all their fears." The guard set the quill down, dropping what she'd been working on for the woman before her. "Jeven was dirty; if even their type can't see he was sacrificing his own men for personal profit, they'll earn no sympathy from me. Beyond that, as captain of the guard, it's my responsibility to protect everyone in the city – regardless of nationalities or allegiances." Her tone was rare, making the same promises as her words. "If they live in Kirkwall, they'll be protected by my blade."

"I know you'll be fair, Aveline. My doubts lie with everyone else." A little more than a year in Kirkwall had done nothing more than reveal the overlooked corruption in the city, how finely sewn it had become in the daily fabric of people's everyday lives. "I've heard rumors of hate crimes, talk of gatherings of ill intent...Fereldans have enough burdens here as is to only have another added."

"It won't escalate, Hawke – not on my watch. Until that moment, we'll see." Sigourney gave no response, instead, smoothing a small crease in her clothes; the guard captain eyed her knowingly. "That's not enough for you, but it's all I've got; I won't have my guards searching for rats in dark corners. If you're concerned, keep an eye out and deal with any illegal activity you come across. I certainly won't deny the help." She rolled up the last document, gathering its bind and sealing its clasp. "Either way, discussing bigotry in the city wasn't the reason I asked you here. See that poster there?" A gesture toward a partially concealed parchment. "Read it."

The mage apprehended the draft, a single brow rising. "A bounty? At the Viscount's behest, no less." She quickly assessed its contents. "'Uncertain company'…I can only imagine why Saemus' captors are so vaguely detailed." Only unpleasant thoughts came to mind. "Perhaps because this bounty appears more a contest of skill than an actual rescue."

Aveline nodded. "Obvious, right? Bran's been edgy lately. An edgy politician usually means something's wrong – and that something's being hidden. I did a bit of investigating and found this." A sheet was pushed forward, a single name proudly scribbled at the top.

"A sign up for the bounty. Interesting how no one else has taken advantage given the reward." An inquiring glance up. "Who is this Ginnis?"

"The leader of an independent group called the 'Winters' based out of Nevarra. But she's mercenary – and from the way she's been seen arguing with Bran, it's clear she couldn't care less about the Viscount's son. You will." The guard captain crossed her arms. "There's also profit and influence to be had. You still claim to need those, don't you?"

The mage rose from her chair. "I appreciate the gesture, but I'd feel like I'm stepping on toes." Her eyes spotted the numerous volumes of a bookcase, making her way to them. "Should this not be a task for the guard?"

"It should. But if this hasn't been publicly declared to me yet, they don't want the guard involved. Apparently, the boy's safety is second to whatever scandal would come of it." Unfortunate…A finger tilted a book forward, the mage examining its title. "But I know Leandra's been trying to secure a meeting with the Viscount to get back your family estate. This could only help."

The book was pushed back in place. "You've taken up spying again."

"You're no child, but I look out for my friends. Keeping tabs on your whereabouts saves me camping on your doorstep." The mage merely nodded, gaze still to the many books before her. "I noticed you've been visiting the Gallows more recently. Mostly asking around about that mage we helped before;" she could feel the other's eyes on her, "Feynriel."

"Your point, Aveline?"

"You obviously made the right decision. Why doubt it now?"

"Doubt?" Another book tugged and examined. "The law is clear: apostates should be turned into the Circle lest they become a threat to themselves or others. Along with Feynriel's unstable condition, my course of action was justified. Regardless," she denied the hesitation, "there were concerns. The Circle does not look kindly on apostates, even if one willingly seeks their aid; it is all too likely I sent Feynriel to his death." The alternative was that he would be made Tranquil and a quick death would be a generous mercy…Her fingers pressed against the book's spine. "The situation has made me a hypocrite. The boy and I both are what we are, yet he was condemned to the Gallows while I was not." She felt her brows furrow. "What right do I have to not share his fate?"

"You're…" the captain sighed, "an exception."

"There are no exceptions."

"There shouldn't be, but there are. It's the world we live in, Hawke; not everything's a clean cut." The other's lips were a thin line. "You had a father who trained you to control your abilities. Feynriel didn't. You brought him to a place that could help." The mage caught the implication – she had been trained to be _useful_ while all other mages were to be assumed dangerous. "Your part in that mess is done, Hawke. Let it rest."

"Do you let yourself rest, Aveline?"

A wrinkle in the older woman's brow. "No."

Sigourney smiled.

"All right, Hawke: have it your way. Just…don't take it too far, all right?" She nodded and the other woman gave a look that told she wasn't fully convinced, "I feel like we always focus on business with these 'personal' talks. Or Kirkwall."

"Yes…" her expression was immediately apologetic – she had promised her mother she would have fun and, so far, she had only received a new task to complete, "How are you, Aveline? As the recently instated captain of the guard, I haven't been able to see you as often." While their extended time apart had been regrettable, she was sincerely proud of her friend and the commendable efforts placed into her new position. "I'm also positive Mother would be glad to receive a proper report on you for once."

"No complaints so far. Even if things are so busy now I can hardly keep up with them. It's a big mess, but at least it's no longer being swept under the rug." She glanced around the office. "This is where I need to be. I'll never forget your part in that." A smile. "Though it's nice to know I'm missed. How is Leandra?"

"Well. She sends her regards. Mother had been so proud the day she heard the good news and wanted to come to the Keep, but decided she would be too much of a bother." She suspected her mother would have also been embarrassed, no longer having the means of a Kirkwall noble. "If you ever the time, I'm sure she'd love to see you again."

"I'd go now if I could. With everything's she's done for me, it's the least I could do."

"She's always considered you a part of the family. As do I."

"But not Carver, right?" Sigourney frowned, but the other waved it off. "Don't you worry: the fact that he does have such a piss poor attitude toward me makes me feel more like a member of your family than not. Despite his attempts, I'm sure."

"He's still sore about the guard situation." Her words had been an understatement; her brother wanted nothing to do with the guard captain and held no reservations showing it. "The fact that you've managed to do so well in your time here no doubt agitated the wound."

"What's done is done. Your brother was never meant for the guard."

"I agree." It was as the other said: Carver looked at the guard and did not see responsibility, only the chance to make a name for himself. "But he's restless. If he's not making a difference with his sword, he deems himself useless. I've been thinking of going to Meeran." Aveline's distaste was immediate. "I don't particularly like the man, either, but if he gave Carver a job personally, he would know I'm not the only one he values."

"That sounds…oddly specific."

A hand swept her bangs to the side; her word choice had been poor. "Carver and I aren't on the best of terms at the moment. We had another argument. He," the heavy feeling returned, settling uncomfortably in her chest, "blamed me for Bethany's death."

Aveline's brows downturned sharply, lips pursing with exasperation. "That damned idiot."

"He spoke the truth." Her nail trailed the book's edge. "If I had done what was necessary…" a myriad of outcomes: each exhaustive – each a solution she should have thought of at the time; she felt her lip twitch – the book was set aside, "My sister's death was not the only I caused that day." Steely orbs flicked up from the worn cover. "Did you not blame me for Wesley?"

"I did." Unapologetic. "Even when I didn't want to. Taint or no, that cut was cruel." The woman's gaze fell on her shield before releasing a sigh. "People say fool things when they've lost something dear to them, Hawke. Your brother acts a fool without the help."

"He's frustrated. I understand that – but he refuses any aid I try to offer on the matter." Her brows curved. "I need to find a way to make the situation better. Mother already…" the heavy feeling grew, "she should not have to see her remaining children constantly at odds." What she had to say next – the admittance – was…difficult. "She mentioned today how much she worries for Carver."

An expectant look. "And you?"

"Yes." But that was unimportant; the volume was replaced on the shelf. "I should go. I promised to join Carver at the Hanged Man tonight; apparently, it's the only place in all Kirkwall for a brother and sister to set aside their differences." A glance was tossed her way. "I don't suppose I could convince you into joining?"

"I don't think Lowtown's ready for the new captain of the guard at a tavern. Not that I couldn't use the laugh. Feel free to send everyone my regards, though." Her expression sobered. "And if you see Isabela – which I'm sure you will unless she's out whoring – tell her that if I catch another one of her women selling their 'wares' on my streets, I'll toss her in the brig myself."

Sigourney smiled. "I'll be sure to remind her."

* * *

Isabela was _amazing_.

As bright as the moon and as strong as the sea.

And so _worldly_ – always making time to share the most _fascinating_ dirty stories.

The tip of Merrill's ears burned hotly still from her latest tale, the other woman laughing in her carefree way before imbibing a sizable portion of her drink. The elf gingerly nursed her own mug, a small sip granting her more of the frothy foam on top than beer.

"So, how are things, Kitten? I haven't seen you around these parts in a while." Her brow inclined, her full lips doing the exact opposite. "What's this?" A gesture to her foot. "Why are you all bandaged up?"

"Don't worry – it looks a lot worse than it actually is." Merrill revolved the limb as if in proof that all was well. "I ended up getting lost again. I was supposed to go to the market in Lowtown, but my feet decided to take me to the lowest part of Kirkwall instead. That part wasn't so bad, actually – I never had a reason to go all the way down there before and finally seeing it had been…" she paused, thumbing through the exploit in her head, "eventful would be a good word. It was more the part where I stepped on a shard of glass that was unpleasant…."

A fond pat to her head. "You'll have to be more careful. Do you still carry around that twine Varric lent you?"

"I do. I just never think to use it when I should – which, I suppose, is all the time, now that I think about it." She frowned: it was just silly on her part; what was the point of Varric's thoughtful gesture if she couldn't even remember to make use of it? And it was such a lovely shade of brown, too…. "Though, I was fortunate enough to be near Anders' clinic at the time. He healed me."

"'Fortunate' isn't the word I'd use given the circumstances. Anders;" she uttered the name as if it left a bad taste in her mouth, "I went to that clinic of his to get a little something cleared up and was forced to listen to his damned speeches the entire time! And let me tell you: no woman wants to hear a man ranting about the 'mage's plight' or other that near her nethers. Talk about a mood killer…." A sigh. "He used to be so much _fun_ before that 'Justice' got to him. Now it's only 'templar this', 'injustice that'. Such a waste…Like Hawke's ass." Merrill coughed, almost choking on her drink. "I mean, why have such a spectacular rump if all she does is ram a stick up it?"

A…stick? She couldn't imagine Hawke ever doing such a thing – especially not _there_ …Though Isabela had mentioned sticking quite a few things _there_ in her stories, that it had actually been a _good_ thing.

 _Pleasurable_.

She blushed.

The pirate continued, appearing deep in thought. "I suppose the same could be said of the brother. The body's nice to look at, but it's so obvious he doesn't have a clue on how to use it on anything worthwhile. All I've done is glance his way and he seemed fit to burst." She rolled her eyes. "And the whole 'younger sibling' bit?" Another healthy gulp. "Pass."

"Isabela!" What she said had been so mean! Carver…Well, she didn't know much about him besides that he was particularly good with a sword – but he was related to Hawke – the woman that had, from the start, been one of the nicest people she ever met. Usually, at least…. "You can't really think those sorts of things, can you?"

"About Muscles and Ser Do-Right?" She smirked, clearly proud of her creations. "Sure I can. It's just a shame the two of them are so attractive. Even you must think they would both be far more tolerable if they just sat and looked-" amber eyes suddenly shifted, her wicked expression immediately growing, "oh, look – it's Hawke's brother!"

"That's _Carver_." Merrill turned in her seat, witnessing the approaching human's chest puff out like an angry bird's. "Carver Hawke."

Isabela made a lazy 'O' with her mouth. "And here I thought it was 'the bulky hanger-on'…Did you really make it all this way without that sister of yours?" A grin. "I do believe Hawke Jr. is finally growing up."

His expression was dark. "Sure: have your fun. I didn't come here for you, anyway."

"Oh, stop." The pirate chuckled. "You'll hurt my feelings."

The human glared at the other woman before looking to her.

"Merrill." Carver nodded stiffly in acknowledgement. "Good to see you."

Isabela stifled a laugh and the irritated expression returned.

The elf eyed the two of them curiously, one cross, one amused – had she missed something important? She'd always managed missing things others understood easily…. "It's nice to see you again, Carver. Not that it's been so long since we've last seen each other both being with Hawke on our last excursion from Kirkwall, but you look well!"

"You too – well, that is. You look good." He cleared his throat, flashing several pieces from his pocket. "Buy you a drink?"

"You can see she already has one, dear…" Isabela trailed before picking up her close to empty glass and waving it from side to side, "Though, I could use a refill…"

Carver scoffed. "So you can down it before the mug's even full? I won't lose all my coin before the night's end on some drunken pirate wench like you."

The other woman pouted, but mirth danced in her eyes. "You don't want to try and loosen those pesky inhibitions? Enough drinks and I might even bed you."

"Like you'd need alcohol for that." The man retorted, a superior sort of judgment riding his tongue. "Don't you just toss it away?"

A slow smirk spread across her lips. "Only to big boys and girls. And more experienced, elder Hawkes…" the man grew so red, Merrill could no longer tell if he suffered from anger or embarrassment; the pirate rose, strutting forward in her liquid way to trail her fingers down his bare arm…Until the silvers he held were in her hand. "Naturally, Merrill here wants to treat her dear friend Isabela as well – isn't that right, Kitten?"

She nodded easily, her gaze switching to Carver. "It's all right, isn't it?"

The man nodded grudgingly.

"Well, I'm off. If I stare at the bottom of this glass any longer, I'll actually get depressed." A wink. "You kids try and behave while I'm away – and Merrill, you make sure to kick him where I taught you if he doesn't."

"Damned whore…" He muttered under his breath, watching her leave.

Merrill's brows furrowed. "You really shouldn't say those things about Isabela. The two of you really should get along better."

"She's the one constantly making me the butt of her jokes – all because she thinks I'm harmless." Another scoff. "A harmless person could never stomach the things I've done."

"But it's obvious you're still attracted to her. You had that look not long ago, the one men always get when she's around." She could never imagine holding so much sway over the opposite sex; Isabela made it an art form.

"She's easy on the eyes– sure, but she's the type that's only good for a tumble. Nothing more."

Her brow crinkled, thinking over his words. "Am I the 'tumble' type too, do you think?" She eyed herself and frowned. "Probably not: I'm all angles where Isabela's curves…"

"What? No! I-" Carver sputtered, coloring, "what I meant to say was that she's not the sort to put stock in, you know – relationships. It's all just a game to someone like her." He grimaced, running a hand through his hair. "Does it matter? She's gone now – let's not talk about her if we don't have to."

"Is there something else we should be talking about instead?"

The man very much resembled a startled fish, gaping and seemingly at a loss for words. "Well…we could talk about you for instance." He suddenly nodded as if he'd found the right answer. "Tell me more about yourself. You're not like most girls around here – I mean, you're an elf to start."

She felt the corner of her lips curl. "It was the pointy ears and facial markings that gave it away, wasn't it? It's usually one of the two."

"Right." Pink stained his cheeks – oh, it was _darling_. "I just…figured I didn't know much about your kind of elves – the Dalish. The fact that you're one should mean something, shouldn't it?" It did: it meant she was one of the People, that her freedom was willingly spent searching for the bits and pieces of their stolen heritage – but was there a way to explain that to a human? She doubted it. "I've heard things, of course, but, looking at you…You're certainly nothing like what the rumors say."

"I suppose that's a good thing given the rumors your kind tend to spread about my people. Mostly that we're arrogant and waste our time trying to recapture the past. Or that we're uncivilized savages that kill any human we happen to spot - those seem the most popular, anyway." The other looked uncomfortable, but she found it a natural fact: her people had many unflattering conceptions about the humans as well. "I'm sure the time we spent at Sundermount hadn't helped things…You hadn't really seen the Dalish at their best."

"Well, I can't say they were the friendliest bunch. I just don't understand why they think they're so damn superior – apparently to even their own."

"It's not superiority, no. My clan…All Dalish hold themselves to a higher standard." Merrill shook her head – it was more than that. More than a choice. "Each of us has to rely on the other. And we have a sort of loyalty that has no word in your language."

"Huh." A hand was placed on the back of his neck, rubbing the area there. "So, you'd never…you know – with a human?"

"Talk? Frolic?"

"Er…dally. With someone like…" his eyes went all squinty before widening considerably, " _Sister_?"

"Oh… _Oh_!" Merrill felt the familiar heat settle as she chanced another sip of her drink. "I never…" well, she _had_ thought of it – quite a bit, actually – just, always alone, "I suppose…I wouldn't mind it – if Hawke were interested, of course. Which I'd never think she would be – not when there's Anders and Isabela…Though, I'd rather like it if she were..."

" _No_ –" the human suddenly looked ill, shaking his head furiously, " _Maker_ , _no_! My sister – she's _here_!"

The elf turned in her seat again – she really would have to face the opposite direction the next time she came – and there was Hawke, eyes constantly analyzing, taking in everything around her. The way she walked, how others had to take notice – it was the reverse of awkward – different even from what Isabela did. It…assured.

 _Regal_.

By simply being there, it was as if she made everything else _want_ to be better.

The woman finally spotted them, smiling when her eyes landed on her brother, keeping the smile as their eyes met as well.

Merrill colored.

Carver glowered.

"What – another Hawke?" Isabela tsked, returning with a pitcher in each hand. "Must be something in the water."

Amber met grey and the elf began to fiddle with her fingers, feeling a creeping sort of panic; it always happened when the two spoke – like there was always a side that needed to be picked when she favored them both.

"Isabela." Sigourney approached the pirate, acknowledging her with a nod. "I see you're here as well."

A smirk. "I do live here, you know."

The other smiled. "I have a message from Aveline for you. She wished me to pass on that you'll be jailed if you continue your illegal ventures. The others as well."

She sighed. "Forever the bringer of good news. At least I won't be running dry anytime soon." A brow raised. "I would offer, but knowing you…"

"I'd decline."

"Of course you would. The alternative would require you knowing what a good time actually is."

"We all have our own definitions: mine happens to not involve drinking so much substandard ale that I end up unconscious in various ditches."

A scoff. "Snob. That was only once and because Varric had been buying – why wouldn't I take advantage?" The pirate drew near, telltale sway returning; Merrill bit her lip. "You need to learn to relax. Take a breath and smell the stale vomit." She moved closer still, their bodies almost touching. "Enjoy yourself..."

"By being irresponsible?" The other was unfazed. "There's more to life than a good time, Isabela."

"That has to be the most pathetic thing I've heard all day." She chuckled. "And I've been surrounded by drunken sods for most of it."

Carver laughed.

Merrill frowned.

Hawke glanced to him – hurt? Before it was gone. "For a woman so opposed to the thought of judging others, you do a surprising amount of it."

"So, I'm a fraud." Isabela shrugged. "What else is new?"

"You've convinced yourself." Her gaze was steel. "That much is clear.

It was like a flash of lightening, the narrowing of the pirate's eyes before a smirk found its place once more. "We're done here – talking to you is a chore. Especially when there's 'substandard' ale to be drunk." The pirate tipped one of the pitchers in her direction. "I'll see you later, Kitten. Try not to get bored to death."

The elf waved goodbye, still unsure of where she stood; she had always found it interesting how Isabela so easily accepted her for everything she was, but didn't extend the same courtesy to Hawke.

She wondered if the pirate really did like the other woman, but just didn't wish to admit it….

"Just great. My coin bought those drinks and now I won't even have a taste." Carver shot her a dirty look. "If you've not come to a tavern for alcohol, Sister – why are you here?"

"To see you." Matter-of-fact. "Mother mentioned you'd be here tonight; she thought the two of us could do with a bit more time together."

"Mother needs a new hobby if all she can do is tell you where I am every second of the day." He crossed his arms. "If I didn't mention I'd be at the Hanged Man to you, isn't it obvious I didn't want you knowing I was here?"

"Regardless – she has cause to worry. I can't say I'm particularly happy with the state we're in either." There was a softening in her eyes, one the rest of her face seemed to deny "I'd prefer it not be an act, but our differences need to be resolved, Carver – for her sake."

"Don't you mean for 'your sake'? Here's something you finally can't fix and everyone knows it."

There was an unbearable pause as she simply stared at her brother. "You're doing this to spite me?"

His chin jutted. "Maybe I am. Or maybe, just once, you'll realize not everything's about you." He rose from his chair. "Shove your 'time together'. I'm not staying here." His eyes narrowed dangerously, seeing the other about to protest. "Don't follow. You do and I'll tell the whole bloody city what you really are."

"Carver." He did not turn. "Carver, please." There was a sliver of the city at night before the door slammed behind him.

Sigourney closed her eyes, two fingers at her temple.

Merrill found her own fingers itched, a sudden urge to do the action for her. "Hawke…"

The hand fell. "Merrill?"

"I'm so sorry you and your brother aren't getting along as you should." She faltered – Creators, she was probably only making things worse! "I…know he was angry when he left, but you can tell he truly does care for you. He wouldn't put in so much effort in acting the opposite, otherwise."

"I should apologize. You shouldn't have seen that." It was that shift again – that awful wall – and somehow she knew no more would be said on the matter. "Are you staying? I'd be happy to offer walking you home if you thought to leave."

Merrill glanced at the empty table – she'd only think on the events that made it so if she lingered. _But_ … "I wouldn't want to inconvenience you. Not after-" her mind warned her to stay away, "I should make use of the twine I have. I already promised Varric – and now Isabela as well – I'll never learn otherwise."

"It wouldn't be an inconvenience. It might even be a bit selfish on my part." Her tone, the sudden warmth of her eyes, made her stomach feel like a bowl of jelly. "I enjoy talking to you, Merrill."

"Oh, I'm sure there isn't a selfish bone in your body – I can't imagine it, at least." The other opened the door, letting her go first before following. "Though, I am a bit surprised you don't find me…Well, a nuisance, really. I always babble when I talk, going on and on about things that don't really matter. And I never catch the cleverer things people say." But others rarely caught hers, so that could be fair….

"I find it endearing." Candid; the elf's stomach shivered again. "You have this way about you; being the person that you are makes others…comfortable." Sigourney slipped her hands into her pockets, a puff of white billowing around her lips. "Places like the Hanged Man…I always find myself out of sorts." It was a dazzling sort of smile when she glanced her way. "Seeing you there made me feel more at ease."

She found herself suddenly warmer, despite the nip in the air. "Why come to the Hanged Man if you knew you wouldn't enjoy yourself?" She quickly shook her head. "Not that I wasn't happy to see you – or that I couldn't understand why you'd avoid it. The people can be so noisy it becomes hard to think…I suppose I'm just curious, really."

The other's expression dimmed and Merrill wished she could catch her words and take them back. "I've been told I don't devote enough time to such dalliances. That I don't causes…unnecessary concern."

"It's a good idea, I think. You're always working so hard for others and your family – you deserve a bit of time for yourself."

An appreciative glance. "Thank you…Though, I'm afraid I'm no good at it."

"I'm sure that's not true – you're good at everything you put your mind to. This certainly won't be any different." She smiled. "You told Isabela before that we all have our own definitions of a good time; we just need to find what yours are." She looked to the taller woman inquisitively. "What do you consider fun, Hawke?"

"'Fun'?" A nod. "I…Cooking is enjoyable. Listening to the Chant being sung during the earlier hours of the morning. Gazing at the stars at night…" the other woman had a good memory there, the elf could tell, "nature in general. And I've already mentioned my love for reading. Those moments when I can lose myself in a book, even if one I've read countless times before and, still, somehow, discover something new." Her lips parted, a chuckle as pleasant as it was rare escaping. "I suppose that could be considered silly."

"It isn't silly! I do it too!" A slight tilt of her head. "Not that that's a decent argument, really – it could just mean we're both being silly together. Though…there are books out there that are terribly dull – even one's having to do with my people's history. I hate to admit it, but I've fallen asleep on more than a few. I would wake up and there would be little bits of drool all over the pages." She felt her brow crinkle. "And then the entire process would start all over again when I tried to read more and I would feel even worse – especially when someone had to have gone through so much trouble writing all those words…"

Sigourney smiled. "The books most consider boring are usually the ones I enjoy most. They're," a short pause, "honest. Beginning to end, their intentions are clear." Something in her expression, her eyes, darkened. "People are not as easy to read."

They turned a corner. "Should they be?"

"The alternative implies something to hide."

Merrill frowned. "Not everything about a person is always pretty or neatly wrapped." No, often, they were more bloody and scarred… " I think it natural that we all tuck a piece of ourselves away somewhere. Hidden from those who might not understand." And when had she ever been understood? Had others wish to understand her? It was a short list. "Don't you?"

"It could be a necessity." Her low tone made it clear she spoke of mages – of them both. "What remains should be genuine." Brief – a flicker of emotion. "What's left should be real."

"Even books have their secrets. They're fairly picky, as well – choosing to take one only so far…" Her fingers trailed the pebbly stone of a nearby building they passed. "I used to believe books had the answers to everything I could ever want to know, but now…Now, I think it's better to believe in people."

Another corner. "People make mistakes."

"That's why they need others to believe in them."

"Do you believe in me, Merrill?" Her eyes widened from the sudden question – the cut of the other's stare. "My decision with Feynriel – your disapproval was clear. I doubt such resentment simply faded."

"It was a disagreement! People are allowed to have those, aren't they?" She unhurriedly descended the stairs, taking in the shivering branches of the large, alienage tree. "There was a chance my clan could have helped him. It wouldn't have been perfect, but it would have been _his_ choice." Green connected with grey. "Being what you are – how could you not see that?"

"I did." The admittance was clinical. "I also considered the innocents he would have harmed if he hadn't found what he needed. The Dalish deaths if Marethari could not stop what was to come. His own safety if he continued without formal training. The peace of mind of a mother terrified she was losing her only son." It was such an odd thing: seeing and hearing the conflict – but, somehow, _not_. "I will never accommodate everyone. I accept that. But the facts are there. And the damage was minimized." Her gaze was severe. "That will have to be enough."

Merrill glanced away, feeling a tiredness that wasn't her own. "I don't want to argue." She shook her head. "You've had enough of that."

A smile – the elf wondered how one learned to construct such things when necessary.

What sort of person they would have to be in order to do so.

"I'm glad we didn't run into any trouble." Grey eyes – now dulled – settled on her house before returning. "Is there anything else you need?"

"No."

"Then I hope the rest of your evening goes well." A dip of her head. "Good night, Merrill."

"Good night." The elf turned to her door…hesitating only to turn around again. "What will you do? After this, I mean-" a clouded breath, "where will you go?"

"I'll walk around a bit more. With time, his anger could subside." That sad, illusive _thing_. "If the two of us came home together…Maybe that would be enough."

"Hawke…" she couldn't stop the thoughts from reaching her tongue, "Will you be all right?"

"There's no need to worry, Merrill. I'll be fine." The same, easy smile. "Good night."

She nodded.

The other turned away.

The flimsy door was pushed inward; Merrill stayed in place, watching the details of Hawke's black jacket eventually blur until she was swallowed whole by darkness.


	3. Shades

The Arishok sees only black and white.

One is enlightened by his 'Qun' or in need of correction. And everything simply **is** as it must **be**.

Sigourney finds such clean lines…enviable.

His expectation is ideal. Respectable. Perplexing…Without pause, the Qunari leader brands Kirkwall a pestilence, its inhabitants merely… ** _wallowing_**.

No order.

No **goal**.

Orange spills across jagged, cavern walls, light and shadow alternating in a way that makes everything severe.

She has a goal.

Kirkwall can be improved.

Intervention is often resisted, but necessary: the good of the many must always come before the good of the few. She cannot condone the state of the city, deny the **_rot_** and **_decay_** –

But it will be handled. With **their** laws.

_Is it enough?_

The light trembles.

Structure is inherent to the Qunari; order is implied. Stranded as they are, severed from their home, their ways remain intact. Constant. Severe – a role is given, a role is filled.

It is…

Effective.

… **Familiar**.

She is a mage. There is no choice _not_ to be.

Yet Ketojan – _Saarebas_ – a mage as well – a product of his Qun – made another choice. The only other available to their kind.

Death.

 **Fire**.

_Why?_

Orange nips at the shadows, intensifying.

To die to exist… _Illogical_. Existence is their only choice:

'Asit tal-eb'

His words, not hers – but he is **dead**. He shouldn't be **dead**. Why is he **dead** – to 'be' implies _living_. The Saarebas could have had freedom. It was _there_ – she had _given_ it to him.

_Can freedom be 'given'?_

**_Irrelevant_ **

He wanted nothing she had to give. He was Qunari. But they were the same–

 _Yes_ ,

Prisoners in their own bodies. Dangerous, dangerous things…He was more literal – chains, stitches – but it was still the _same_. Their bonds a similar weight.

 _Bethany_ –

The orange flares.

 **Failure**.

Too slow – too **_slow_**.

Her breaths are too fast.

She should have been able to help her– **him**. They could have helped each other. Helped each other

 _Be_.

Without _her_ …

Why couldn't she _save_ him?

Why could she _never_ save–

Was her intent not enough?

Was **_she_** not enough?

She was not **enough**.

Orange. _Furious_. Burning everything with light.

She has doubts. He had none.

And she cannot compete with such

 _Certainty_.

A breath.

A shudder.

The orange dims.

Her hand rises, grey orbs mirroring the tendrils of flame that writhe between her fingers before they combine and engulf her hand.

Sigourney hates fire.

Unpredictable. _Messy_ – feeding off the wielder's emotions and not their intents. She looks at it and sees the loss of control.

Her first book.

Burned to ashes.

She had been so scared, so sad both from losing the item and a lack of understanding…but even more dismal was her father's expression. She would never forget: a mixture of shame and remorse unlike any she'd ever seen.

And even then, she knew something else had been lost.

More than a book. More than her innocence.

Sigourney eyes the flame again.

A flicker.

A pulse.

 _Unacceptable_.

The waves of the Wounded Coast crash in the distance. She remembers when her father had taught her the technique. A method for control – fire conjured only to be kept consistently steady; magical fire differed from its normal twin: wind did not affect it – its stability depended entirely on the mage's will.

Her will has been shaken. Her emotions… _persistent_.

Momentarily.

Meeting the Arishok and dealing with one of his mages…The Qunari make her ask too many questions, their ideals cracks in beliefs she's held for years.

And she has not been able to meditate alone in some time.

Another deep breath. Sigourney closes her eyes, knowing the fire's condition even without seeing it, feeling the swathes of energy leaving in controlled increments. Between her family and Kirkwall, her studies have been neglected. It is…understandable, but disconcerting – she is no stranger to juggling numerous tasks at once. It is _expected_.

From herself.

From others.

A small spike in energy that she quickly remedies. To have a clear focus is…comforting. A thing she can solve now. The flame. She must control the flame. She _will_ control the flame.

It is only a matter of time.

'There is nothing so big it cannot be solved.'

Her father's words….

"My magic will serve that which is best in me." The mantra is everything – _solves_ everything; the flame is overtaken with ice, orange burning steadily at its core. "Not that which is most base."

Sigourney opens her eyes.

* * *

 

There are no definites.

Not truly.

Not in their world.

Black and white exist merely as illusions. Black and white blend only to form greys.

Greys that hold so much promise. Greys that frighten so very many….

Merrill prefers where lines blur.

Everything is indistinct.

Everything is _beautiful_.

Red blooms forth – summoned with a prick – marring its pale canvas.

Others are not like her, preferring their lines definite. _Clear_. They etch these lines in stone, unknowingly setting boundaries – restrictions – on themselves. On _others_ ,

To stave off doubt.

To keep wonder at bay.

Is ' _certainty_ ' so precious?

Too often she finds it misleading.

The most dangerous things seem to occur when people think they are sure.

Merrill isn't sure.

Nothing is sure.

Not truly.

Not with the path she walks now.

But if the sentiment were ever spoken aloud, admitted to even one other than herself, she knows there would be someone ready to rise and chastise her.

There is **_always_** someone.

Everyone appears allowed to have an opinion **but** her.

The blade digs deeper.

 _She_ is **different**.

 _Why_?

The way she thinks is not like everyone else. It's nothing necessarily new – she's always been aware of it: a niggling sort of knowing, like a tingling at the back of the skull…

They think in lines.

She thinks in circles,

She cannot understand their way of thinking, no matter how hard she tries – cannot understand how their ways came to be. These lined boxes…these **_prejudices_**. How one way can be right. The other, then, wrong.

 _Who_ has made these **rules**?

The Creators her people no longer remember?

The unheedful Maker of the humans?

Merrill supposes it doesn't matter in the end.

No,

What matters is that she cannot _agree_.

Judgement is a waste of **time**.

The Keeper once told her that everything in the world had a reason for being the way it is:

The birds in the sky, the halla on the ground – even the humans with their cruelty had a purpose the Elvhen could not readily see…

The Eluvian – its shards – also holds purpose.

So much **_purpose_** …

Red mists, _rising_ , floating in vibrant streams that dance within the air.

In her hands, she clutches something invaluable: a piece of history – **_their_** history – just one of the many loose fragments stolen so very long ago. A way to **remember** -

 _Before_.

She willingly feeds her essence into the broken artifact used once by her ancestors. Uses it for her people as they so effortlessly did.

At first, it had been for Tamlen.

 _Mahariel_.

One gone without a trace. The other poisoned just by being near.

To know what _happened_.

She deserved that, hadn't she? Deserved to know how a mirror, a tool of her people's hands, could take both of them away.

It _more_ than an **_obsession_** -

But both of them are gone…

And it's been far too long.

Too _long_.

Her efforts would not be wasted. The mirror could be more than a burden. More than a grievance.

The mirror could **help** her people – she would _make_ it so.

If she could not save her friends from their fates, she would use the Eluvian to do the next best thing:

Recover even the smallest part of her people's heritage.

Find a way to save them **_all_**.

She only needs a _piece_.

A fraction – just a fraction – of their lost culture, of what they had once _been_ , is worth _any_ sacrifice.

 ** _Any_**.

Merrill wishes her clan could see it.

Her **dedication**.

Her _wholeheartedness_.

Wishes the Keeper could see what she sees when she looks at the Eluvian and not turn from it. That they both weren't so blinded by their hatred and mistrust for her actions to see what she truly did.

It is dangerous-

Yes,

She holds no illusions to the contrary.

But she isn't foolish. And she understands the risks.

Her entire life has been research. Her entire life has been preparation.

Yet, the spirit knows more than all the books she's read combined.

She would _gain_ that knowledge. _Trick_ it into helping her.

Because out of all the uncertainty, one thing shines _clear_.

Her people have endured **_enough_**.

Red spills down the gentle slope of her arm, tiny rivulets combining; seperating.

The magic she uses now – scorned by so many – unfitting within their lines – will be their _salvation_.

And then, her clan will say:

'Merrill was not so strange.'

'Merrill was not so different.'

'She was one of us – exactly like _us_. Placing her people above everything.'

Even herself.

Merrill gasps, feeling the raw power coursing through her. The spirit whispering former, ancient things….

Asha'belannar claimed her eyes shut.

She sees _clearly_.

Another stroke. Blood trails down porcelain skin, the knife she holds carving its path.

It doesn't hurt.

It never hurts.

Other things have cut her _deeper_.

Merrill closes her eyes.

The knife clatters to the ground.

She will get **_results_**.

Let the chips fall where they may.

* * *

 

A knock.

Another.

The door to Merrill's house is rarely locked, opening easily and with little force.

Sigourney steps in.

"Merrill?" The door is carefully shut behind her. "I know our time together was set for tomorrow," a pause; a smile, "but I suppose I couldn't wait." The room is dim, illuminated only by waning streaks of sun. "I, perhaps, bought more than I should for our dinner together; I thought we might celebrate." More steps. "Carver and I are close to raising enough coin for the Deep Roads expedition." Grey eyes are active, searching for the hovel's owner – catching specks of crimson on the splintered floorboards instead; the bag she carries lowers. "Merrill?"

"Oh. Hawke." The elf rises, cloaked in shadow. "You're here."

"What are you doing?" Fresh blood coats a lone blade. "What have you done?

"You shouldn't be here." The words are slow – as if only just gaining realization. "I didn't want you to see this."

"You knew I wouldn't approve?" The question is sharp.

"I knew you wouldn't understand."

The elf turns, pale when light finds her, blood trickling, criss-crossing, down her arm.

Sigourney's eyes narrow. "How often do you do this?"

Merrill's brows furrows. "As often as there is need."

"There is never 'need' for blood magic." Her grip on the bag tightens. "The very act is an abomination."

"Blood is powerful. It connects us all…" a smile, "There's nothing inherently evil about blood magic. It's no more dangerous than any other a mage can wield."

"Until you begin controlling others' minds? Forcing people to commit vile acts against their will?"

"I won't." _Barbed_. "I would never do those things!"

"Yet the possibility remains." Even. "With what you've chosen."

Green eyes darken – until – a **shift** , the elf moving closer. "Would you like to hear a story? The spirit tells the most wondrous tales…" a frown, "No, but I suppose you wouldn't be able to understand them." Merrill is near enough to touch her. "Not as you are."

Sigourney does not move. "How long have you been using such foul magic to contact a demon?" Her gaze is unrelenting. "From Sundermount? Earlier?" No response is given. "Look at your arm. How can you stand to injure yourself like this?"

"The same way you risk your own life for those you care for." Merrill looks away "The pain is nothing. The pain will be forgotten."

"I care for your pain. It's more than nothing." The other says nothing. "Merrill." The elf refuses her call, injured arm held firmly to her side. "Why are you doing this?"

Her gaze is to the floor. "You would do anything for your family, wouldn't you?"

"I would not use blood magic." Absolute.

"Even if there were no other way?" Their eyes meet. "Even if blood magic was their only chance?" The other's expression remains constant. "Tell me, then – what _would_ you do?"

"I would stay and continue to learn everything I would need to become the next leader of your clan. I would give my all in fulfilling the role expected of me." There is no pause. "You're intelligent, Merrill. You have a talent with magic within a group that accepts and even values the skill."

"I know what I am, Hawke." Indignant. "I don't need you or anyone else to tell me."

She studies her. "Then, what do you need?"

"What I have already: the aid of a spirit that knows how to restore my people's past. A way to gain knowledge that could mean _everything_ – the first steps to recovering Dalish history, the first steps to recovering who we truly _are_." A pointed stare. "Do you understand? My people have to come before everything." The slightest dip in her brows. "Everyone."

"I see." A **shift**. "Then know this," her eyes are steel, "if you lose control and place anyone within this city in danger, I will be forced to hunt you down and eliminate you as any other threat." She says this without blinking. "You are a mage: you must be held to a higher standard. And you will be made accountable for your actions, no matter their intent." The elf is silent; a lengthy pause. "I want to help you. I will not abide blood magic. If the only aid you'll allow is from a demon – then this is the way things must be."

"You should leave." Her tone is dark. "I don't think it right to threaten someone in their own home."

A hand is offered. "Let me heal you."

An arm is retracted. "I'll be fine."

Sigourney bends, picking the soiled knife from the ground, holding it to the flimsy fabric of her sash before cutting a thin strip away. Despite the elf's protests, her wounded arm is captured, the tie gingerly wrapped around the deepest gashes.

"Merrill." An additional knot is tied, even if unnecessary. "Stop this madness. Before it goes too far."

"And you have to save me?" She pulls away. "Go."

Sigourney leaves.

Merrill does not stop her.


	4. Parallels

"Sister." Reluctant. Chagrined. "I need your help."

Words barely heard over the lively commotion surrounding them.

Sigourney glanced away from a fresh bundle of elfroot, meeting Carver's eyes – fairly surprised her brother had spoken to her at all. Simply getting him to join her on an excursion to the Hightown markets had been a challenge, mention of prepping for the Deep Roads expedition more an influence than spending any time with her.

Even on their way, he had walked several paces ahead, offering her nothing.

Silence.

The mage reached for her coin purse. "With?"

"Meeran offered me a job. Came and found me himself – said it was important." A shift in his weight, scrutinizing. "Said I was made for it. That the boys he hired before me couldn't find their asses with both hands."

"Did he?" A raised brow; just the right amount of surprise: not so much that it seemed she thought him unworthy, not so little that the other would grow suspicious. Meeran owed her many favors, this being the only one she'd sought to collect. "That's good to hear. You're a competent swordsman."

Another pause.

Gauging…

Sigourney offered a silver to the merchant with a smile.

Carver turned, eying the weapons of a nearby cart instead. "I'm better than half the guard, at any rate. No doubt more so with the sorry state Aveline will have them in." A grimace. "With her bloody standards, they'll be no new recruits."

"This job Meeran gave you," she moved to an adjacent stall, perusing its stock of potions and elixirs, "what did it entail?" They would not agree on the other topic; there was no need to linger on it.

"A search and rescue with a nasty twist. One of Meeran's men didn't come back from a simple night hit – Gustav, you remember him, don't you?" She nodded; most of the men of the Red Iron were degenerates, Gustav had been one of the few who treated her as more than the parts of her body. "Well, he was taken by surprise by the one he was targeting, ended up getting all of his men killed in the process." He scoffed. "Damned amateur was what he was; naturally, I was the one who had to clean the mess…But the job was a bust."

The potions merchant tsked in impatience, Sigourney thanking him before moving on; she could find the same quality for less in Lowtown. "Was Gustav murdered?"

"Worse. Turns out the hit was a noble – a Hightown noble that supported Ferelden – can you believe that? I was convinced all the nobles here did without a conscience; this one's sending coin to Denerim, helping with the restoration effort."

Curious. "Who is this noble?

A shrug. "Who cares? His full name's longer than a drunk guy's piss." Carver stopped, finally turning to her, conflict in his eyes. "What matters is that I couldn't do it. I couldn't complete the job." His brows furrowed. "The one job tossed my way…"

A gentle hand was placed on his shoulder. "You did the right thing."

"And what does that get me? A warm feeling at night? I'd rather have the coin." He left her touch. "You may be able to fool yourself, Sister, but we both knew what kind of man Meeran was, and we both walked into the Red Iron with our eyes open – this hit shouldn't have been any different." She frowned: Meeran had simply been the lesser of two evils at the time; most of their jobs involved bribes, extortion – threats…And when they had to kill, she could always rationalize it away; her brother shook his head. "It doesn't matter. We're cut off now. The door's been closed."

"Perhaps it's for the best, then." It had been a mistake to trust Meeran – his lack of morality only succeeded in placing her brother at risk; Sigourney turned, making her way to the food stalls. "The man has never been the forgiving sort, however." A backward glance. "Did he threaten you?"

Carver shook his head. "He wasn't happy about it…but I left without incident. Regardless, I don't want to burn bridges with the Red Iron. We won't need him after the coin from the Deep Roads, but I don't want any bad blood between us: it's never good to have a gang out there that has it in for you. Not with the dirt Meeran has." He smirked, though it looked more like a sneer. "Who knows? I might do business with them in the future. As a patron, not some worthless grunt."

A dip in her brow. "Is that all you want for your future? To run with a petty gang that commits crimes to make a living?" Grey orbs abandoned the apple she'd chosen, flicking in his direction. "You're better than that, Carver."

He chuckled derisively. "Am I? I'm not good enough for the guard – or anything else this city has to offer. I don't have many options left, Sister. Not like you." Options? She could either hide her magic or have it taken advantage of. Or be killed. The other crossed his arms. "I won't demean myself and be someone's spit boy – I'm not meant for a trade." His hand patted the large, bundled weapon on his back. "I'm meant to fight, to use this sword. Carve my own path."

"Leaving your mark in this world does not necessarily have to be taken literally." Her brother never believed himself an intellectual, his only worth measured by the strength of his hands; it…unfortunate. "You're resourceful. As well as determined. It will not be easy, but I do believe in you." She met his gaze. "I know you'll find your way."

"Easy enough for you to say." His countenance darkened. "What haven't you had handed to you?"

"Nothing has been handed to me." Her eyes narrowed. Carver was quiet. "And this discussion is about you." The apple was placed in her basket. "Where is it leading?"

There was a pause. "I've…been thinking. About those letters you gave me – father's letters." It had been a rare occasion, the other actually appreciative of one of her gestures. Despite… "Maybe this Ser Maurevar guy wasn't so bad." He scoffed. "For a templar."

A bruise: the new piece of fruit was replaced. "He appeared to be a good man."

"He was someone important. Someone with _influence_ – enough to give father the life he had. The life _we_ had." His admiration rung clear. "How had Father put it…'Skill thoughtfully applied'?" He nodded. "Everything I've learned about the templars has been one-sided. Reading what I have…Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing. Joining their ranks…."

Sigourney said nothing.

"Well?" Expectant.

Her gaze lowered, hand grazing the lip of a wooden container. "What is it that you want me to say?"

" _Something_." Frustration found its way into his tone. "Anything!"

"Do you want my approval?" Even.

"I don't need your bloody approval. But maybe I'd like to see you happy for once with a decision I've made." He glared at her. "Didn't you just finish spouting you believed in me? Or was that just a lie?"

"It wasn't a lie." The mage felt her fingers curve, gripping the edge. "But this…A templar, Carver." How would Bethany feel? How would their _father_? She…should not be so selfish. She should not be so inconsiderate. She was in **_public_**. "The templars are…necessary. Their roles serve an important purpose. If that is where you wish to pursue your future…I…" her grip tightened.

She could not. She could not _say_ it….

Her brother stared, wanting more, wanting everything she could not give. "It's an honorable order. Respected. I could make a name there. Be my own man." A weighted pause; he glanced away. "Anyway, it's just a thought. For now."

The container was released. "I see."

"Right…So, you'll speak to Meeran?"

"Yes."

"Good." A beat. "Thanks."

* * *

"There you are." An irritable greeting, Gamlen confronting her before she barely opened the door. "That knife ear you run with is here – the one with all those barbaric markings on her face?"

The weight Sigourney held shifted. "Merrill?"

"I don't care – the damn girl wouldn't stop babbling about," a grunt, " _whatever_ , so I tossed her in your room for you to deal with." He eyed her accusingly. "She's one of them, isn't she – your kind?" She nodded; a hand ran through greasy hair in irritation, "Then, don't go making a habit of bringing her here. It's bad enough I have to keep one blighted apostate under my roof with all those templars sniffing about – I'm not about to risk my neck for some alienage waif."

Her gaze was to her room's door. "I apologize, Uncle. I wasn't aware she'd be visiting." It had been a week since they'd last seen each other. "I would have informed you, otherwise."

Gamlen snatched the basket she held away, fingering through its contents impatiently. "Did you get the food? Bloody starving in my own house while you pranced about."

"I'll prepare a meal soon."

"You'd better." He huffed, pulling out an apple. "Cooking's the least you can do with all I've done for your family, girl."

Sigourney met his coal eyes; no matter how disagreeable, her uncle was right: he had managed to get them into the city, taking her family in when no one else would.

It all a debt she would repay.

A smile. "I would like to speak to my friend first. As you've discovered, I bought a variety of fruits to stave off your hunger for the time being."

"Fine–" he took a large chunk of the apple, juice dribbling down his chin, "get rid of her and get to it." Another bite, her uncle walking off with the basket.

The mage frowned, glancing toward the shared room again.

Why was she here?

A hand grazed her stomach; an unsettling feeling.

Odd.

She was not embarrassed. There was no need to be.

This had simply been…Unanticipated.

Several steps to the door; Sigourney carefully cracked it, hearing Merrill's voice waft from the room.

"Oh! You liked that part? Shall I keep going?" She peeked in, viewing her Mabari furiously wag his stubby tail, a series of barks offered to the small elf sitting beside him; the Dalish nodded. "I'd be delighted." A scratch behind his ear. "The hound ran the Dread Wolf down, quick as the wind, only to grab him by the tail. Fen'harel howled _so_ loudly, that the Veil shook and even the stars scattered in fear – but the hound would not loose his prey. The Dread Wolf, realizing he would not win this struggle, bit off his own tail to escape the hound's clutches. And off he fled…." It was…mesmerizing, the way Merrill recounted her peoples' tale – grace, intelligence – _passion_ , all displayed confidently. "Now, the Dread Wolf thinks twice on playing his tricks whenever a hound is on guard."

Oliver barked.

Sigourney blinked.

Merrill beamed.

"Did you really?" An affirming woof. "You're very sweet. Most animals find Dalish history terribly boring; I tried to tell the rats at my house a story, once, and they all scurried away…" a thoughtful look, "Though, I suppose that isn't too terrible in the end…"

Hesitation…The door to the room fully opened.

"Merrill." Her gaze fell to her arm. There was no blood. Why would there be?

Had she been _expecting_ it?

"Hawke!" The elf glanced up, startled, managing a meeker version of her smile. "I was just telling your Mabari a story – about Fen'harel the Trickster. He really is a wonderful listener." He barked happily; her fingers nervously trailed his fur. "Would you like to hear it as well?"

"Is there a demon in this tale?"

Green orbs fell; Oliver whined. "I'm…sorry for barging in like I did. Your uncle didn't seem too fond of letting me in. I hope I didn't cause any trouble for you." Sigourney shook her head. "How are you?"

"I'm fine."

"I suppose that shouldn't be surprising – you always are." That smile that could not settle on her lips. "Aren't you?"

"Yes." Silence. "Why are you here?"

"I wanted to see you. We haven't…" a pause, "It's been some time."

A crease in her brow. "Since I witnessed you use blood magic?"

"Yes." Their eyes finally met, despite the effort it took her. "I meant what I said – I never wanted you to see that." Her expression looked almost pained. "I never wanted any of this…"

"Then stop." Conclusive.

"I can't – I _won't_." Her orbs burned, timidity gone. "I told you before – it's too important."

"So, you came to justify it?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't need to justify myself to anyone. And I won't stop what I'm doing simply because others don't agree. All of my efforts – what I'll accomplish – means so much _more_ than that." _Anger_ – "But…" the hesitancy returned, "there was a part. A small part." The elf suddenly deflated, eyes softening. "No one understands – no one accepts what I'm doing. I thought…" a tense pause, "I thought you might."

Oliver chuffed, making his way over to lick her hand.

Her fingers twitched, grey shifting from him to the woman before her – the same, unsettling feeling. "I accept you, Merrill. It's your actions I can't abide."

"My actions are a part of me." Her brows furrowed. "You can't accept one without the other." She was silent; the other sighed. "We…don't have to talk about that. We disagree. People should disagree – how dangerous would the world be if we all just went on agreeing with each other?" Merrill shook her head. "Let's…ignore it for now – I didn't come to your home only to fight you. We should…We can focus on other things."

"It isn't that simple."

"It could be." Their eyes met. "If you let it." A step closer. "I know where you stand – must we bring it up every time we see each other?" The other's orbs flicked away diffidently. "You once said you enjoyed talking with me. I'm still the same person. Despite the…" her brows dipped low, "That doesn't have to change."

A steady gaze; a careful pause. "We'll see."

The elf nodded stiffly, gaze lingering on the splintered floorboards before she began to pace. "I broke our promise, didn't I? Ruined your plans for our dinner?" Large, green orbs filled with regret. "I'm so sorry. You put in so much effort…You always do…" her feet halted, chancing an upward glance, "And now, you'll be leaving on your expedition." A weak smile. "Are you excited?"

"No." Merrill looked away; Sigourney bit her cheek. "I'm," she thought for a word, "anxious." A breath. "Pleased. It will be the opportunity to provide a stable future; if as successful as we all assume, my family would have all that they need."

Thin fingers worried her palm, eyes still away. "It's everything you've worked so hard for…."

"It's also dangerous." She had never expected the journey through the Deep Roads to be a simple one – despite how flatteringly Bartrand conveyed it. "I've never liked things I couldn't prepare for. With this expedition, there are too many unknowns." Oliver nudged her hand again, the mage rubbing his head. "I've fought darkspawn before. I've spoken with Anders for his experience on numerous occasions – I've read as many available volumes on the topic as I could find…But it does not compare." Twin brows crumpled. "This is not just my life at risk. I will need to gain a proper handle on the situation to prevent any future mishaps befalling anyone I take along."

Merrill met her gaze, smile softer. "You always do that."

A raised brow.

"You're so thoughtful." Her expression grew. "You always worry about others more than yourself."

"You say it as if it's uncommon." She eyed her curiously. "You often do the same."

The elf colored. "Oh – I'm sure you don't – I'm really not – I could never compare–" she fiercely shook her head, "Stop babbling, Merrill, stop babbling…" Oliver barked; Sigourney smiled. "Do you think you'll be happy in Hightown? After this is over, I mean." Her feet moved to pace the room again. "It's so much cleaner there…Far shinier than Lowtown or the alienage."

"Mother will be happy."

"I asked about you."

"Her happiness is my happiness." Her expression dimmed. "She's sacrificed much for Carver and I."

Green cut to grey. "You don't have any happiness of your own?"

Another curious glance; the other asked questions that did not matter, it…confounding. "Seeing those I care for well. Secure. Being a source of stability instead of turmoil." A role entrusted. "My family is all I have. They are my happiness."

She could not read the new emotion that touched Merrill's face. "Hawke…"

"Are you still in there blathering with that damned elf?" Her uncle's brusque tone cut through their conversation, the elf flinching as Sigourney glanced to the cracked door. "Get her out of my house!"

Her eyes narrowed, before shifting back to the other woman. "Please excuse my uncle's behavior. I hope you'll accept an apology from me on his behalf."

"I wish you wouldn't. It's my fault, really – I've overstayed my welcome." A frown. "And only ended up getting you yelled at because of it…"

"I made the decision to stay, Merrill." A smile. "I wished to see you as well." The elf quickly nodded, pink staining her cheeks as she led her out of the room. "Thank you for the visit. I was…concerned. I'm glad to see you're all right." Her hand grasped the handle of the front door, displaying a bustling Lowtown with its opening. "Travel safely."

"I will. I've brought my twine this time." Merrill gave a small wave before slipping out the front door, a glance back to mouth a goodbye before walking on.

Oliver licked her hand again. The mage closed the door with a smile. 

* * *

 

" _Sigourney_!"

Her mother's voice.

Something slammed harshly against a wall.

"Sigourney, hurry – it's Carver!" _Urgent_. "He's been hurt!"

The chipped bowl she'd been drying slipped from her fingers, dropping to the floor with a hollow, clattering sound.

_Carver–_

The mage rushed out of the small cooking area only to be greeted with the sight of her brother – **_injured_** – leaning against their mother – half dragged, half carried into their uncle's home.

Grey eyes quickly accessed the damage: a cut at the brow, a swollen black eye, a fractured nose, a split lip – bruises _everywhere_ ….

"Get a chair." Her gaze shifted to meet her mother's, the other's eyes damp with tears. "He needs a place to sit down…"

Carver grunted, brows furrowing as he moved to stand on his own. "I'm fine."

"What's with all this damned noise?" Gamlen wandered out of his room, absently digging a finger in his ear, before his features twisted. "What the hell happened to him?"

Her brother coughed harshly, glaring at the other man. "What do you think? I was attacked – bloody outnumbered." He swiped angrily at a trail of blood that found his chin. "Meeran and his men…I managed to hold my own against all of them until one of those bastards drugged me. Stuck me with something – made it hard to move…"

Sigourney's eyes narrowed. "Where?"

He would not look at her; their mother urged him on. "Somewhere near the harbor. I was on my way to the Hanged Man," he winced, lowering an arm back to his side, "I took a shortcut like I always do. They ambushed me in an alley; came at me all at once."

Leandra clucked her tongue. "We can discuss all of that later – right now, we need to focus on getting your brother healed."

"Yes." Rigid fingers relaxed. "Of course." The mage closed her eyes, feeling the wave of regenerative energy flowing as she willed, it coming to gather in her outstretched hand.

He shoved her arm away. "Don't touch me! That I'm like this at all–" his teeth clenched, dark eyes filled with scorn,"Meeran told me how you were the one who begged him to give me that job." Her lips were a thin line. "That he only gave it out of pity for me and respect for you…" a bitter scoff, "I bet you thought you were so damned clever…Lying to me – pretending you had no idea when you knew the entire time." His nostrils flared. "And I'm just the _idiot_ , aren't I? Too _stupid_ to know the difference."

The expression on his face, the **venom** in his tone…

Another knife. _Twisted_.

"Carver." A pause to keep her even tone. "I only wished to help-"

"I'm sick of your help! What about that do you find so bloody difficult to understand?" He roared at her – **harsh** , _sharp_ sounds. "Stay out of my life! Do you hear me?" His glare was deadly. "Go ruin someone else's life and just leave me alone!"

Her lower lip trembled.

Their uncle sniggered. "You've really screwed it up this time, haven't you, girl?"

"Gamlen!" Leandra looked aghast.

"What? It isn't my damned fault the girl doesn't know when to keep her nose out of other people's business."

Sigourney was silent, eyes switching between each of the faces before her.

_Pity_. **Fury**. Disapproval.

Three blades.

And _she_ …

Had no words to give.

The mage turned to leave.

"Sigourney!" She did not answer her mother's call. "Oh, Carver…"

The door to their makeshift bedroom was opened; the mage headed to a small chest that lied beside her cot, it unlatched and a dagger claimed.

A sharp whistle.

Oliver was instantly alert, rising to his feet to join her side.

Sigourney made her way to the front door.

"Where are you going?" Her mother demanded, tone near panicked. "You're not thinking of fighting that awful man, are you?"

"Like hell she is." Carver stood as straight as he could manage. "I don't need someone else taking my revenge." He began to limp forward. "Least of all _her_."

Leandra stood in front of him. "Sit down. You won't be leaving this house – not with the state you're in. If you won't let your sister heal you, then you'll just have to suffer me cleaning those wounds." She glanced back to her, the fierceness in her expression fading. "Sigourney…At the very least, go to the Viscount's Keep. Get Aveline and her guard to help you!"

"That isn't necessary." A glance back. "Take care of Carver."

Her mother frowned; her brother glowered; her uncle snorted.

She exited the suffocating hovel, leaning against the closed door with tightly shut eyes.

A breath.

In there…It had been so hard to _breathe_ ….

Oliver barked.

Her eyes opened: the harbor.

An upward glance; the sun was already low in the sky. The shops would close soon. She would have greater difficulty finding Meeran's men in the dark – she needed to locate them swiftly.

She left the door, heading down the stairs to be immediately engulfed in the hectic pace that was Lowtown, her Mabari in tow.

So many faces. None the ones she searched for, none the ones she had left. There were some that called her surname – wanting her attention – even when her pace did not slow.

The mage slipped into an alleyway.

The labyrinth of alleys that lied behind the tall buildings of stone had become second nature now; she often had need to navigate them with the various jobs she had taken for those citizens of Kirkwall that employed her, to capture targets that knew them just as well, and often for the Red Iron.

_Meeran_ …

Her fingers clenched…before being released.

Anger would solve nothing.

Another turn. The harbor was close: the familiar transition from the industrial smell of burnt ash to the sour odor of rotting fish.

She emerged from shadow into a walled clearing. Oliver growled, the fur riling on his back.

Meeran smirked, pushing off the wall he leaned against. "See, boys? Send little Hawke limping home and big Hawke comes out to play, looking to avenge the little shit." The men with him snickered; there were seven, including their leader – two more on either side of her. "That bad blood was with him, Hawke – I don't have anything against you."

Sigourney studied him. The mercenary leader chuckled.

"In fact," he continued, making his approach, "I've always liked you. You were a pain in the ass, but a bloody talented one; a mage – and damned nice to look at." His smirk grew. "But it was those eyes of yours that really sealed the deal. Cold. Detached – the eyes of a killer. Just like mine." His light expression vanished, a sudden gravity taking his features as he stood before her. "That pissant you call a brother accepted a job I found it in my heart to give and decided not to complete it." His eyes narrowed dangerously. "He _crossed_ the Red Iron."

She continued to stare, giving him nothing.

A tsk. "Don't give me that look – he's still alive, ain't he? That's because I owed you." The same smug expression. "For now, it was just a scare…Can't say what my boys will do to him in the future."

Silence.

His brows declined sharply. " _Say something_."

An unwavering gaze, until– "I came to correct a mistake." Meeran's brow rose; Sigourney looked beyond him, watching the movement of his archers. "I asked you to give my brother a job. Instead, you had your men poison him, attack him, and then leave him for dead." A single step was taken; the mage heard arrows notch and weapons rip from their sheaths as she closed the space between them. "You've _crossed_ me."

Meeran raised a hand, his men pausing. "Then you're here to settle the score." A nod. "I can respect that; we're more alike than you'd like to think, Hawke. We don't let people fuck with what's ours." He rubbed his chin, eyes flicking to her bare back. "Thing is, working with you, I figure I know a thing or two now on how you mageys work. Like how you're nothing without those magic sticks of yours."

"Then I know how you work as well, Meeran. How skilled your men are. How they'll attack…" an ugly sneer took his lips; she smiled thinly, "My staff is unnecessary. It won't be needed to deal with the likes of you."

He laughed. "Kill the bitch."

The assassins to the right and left of her charged.

An outward thrust of her arms: the two men were halted in place, their forms following her hands assent into the air – a flick of her fingers sent both hurling toward a wall, the mage pining them there.

Meeran's mouth dropped, eyes wide. "What the…"

A hand billowing with energy was directed his way. "Stay."

The ground beneath his feet burned blue, trapping the mercenary leader where he was.

"The fuck is this?" He struggled to move. "I don't care what dirty tricks you pull – I won't let some Fereldan cunt take what's mine!"

Sigourney cocked her head, wisps of cold air swirling her free hand, shards of ice forming at her fingertips; two of the shards were flung, lodged into the pinned assassins' heads.

The men were released, crumpling to the ground.

Meeran's face grew red, the muscles there twitching. "Someone take that bitch down! I want her fucking head!"

She looked to Oliver, a nod given toward the archers. "Go."

The Mabari snarled, sprinting toward his intended targets before shifting in his course to avoid an arrow directed his way. Oliver rammed into the first archer, the hound's fangs burying deep into his leg. The other archer fumbled with his bow as the Mabari pounced, claws tearing through his leather armor as the hound's bloody jaws clasped around his throat.

Sigourney glanced away from the grisly scene, gaze settling on the four men that remained before focusing on one.

"Gustav."

"Shit…" he took a step back, swallowing heavily, "Rush her! She can't stop us all – get in close and use the poison to take her down!"

A second of hesitation:

She did not move.

The men surged forward.

Twin hands glowed brightly, the mage twining her fingers before jerking her arms back; the four mercenaries' bodies rose off the ground, slamming into each other forcefully. The energy around her hands swelled and grew brighter, orange flames gathering – writhing about her limbs, shooting down to her palms; a large bolt of flame was propelled toward the cluster of thugs, a chorus of agonized screams filling the air as fire devoured their bodies, searing their flesh.

The mage tossed them away.

Oliver howled, head rising from a mauled face.

Sigourney removed the dagger from her side, turning to stand before the mercenary leader.

Meeran stared at her wide eyed, a knife lunged at her chest.

She caught his wrist, dark, blue splotches appearing where she touched, the blade he held surrendered to the ground.

"Mage _b-bitch_ …" he cried out, ice covering his skin, " _I'll ruin you_."

The dagger was pressed to his neck. "Goodbye, Meeran."

A fluid motion.

The man gurgled, hands pressing at his slit throat as he fell to his knees; Sigourney used his shirt to wipe the filth off her dagger.

His body collapsed.

Her dagger was replaced.

A breath.

She closed her eyes, feeling the strength abandon her limbs, her body growing heavy.

Another shaky breath, the action only making the need within her more pronounced.

Worse than hunger. Worse than thirst.

_Lyrium_ …

Fingers searched through the pockets of her jacket only to leave empty.

Her throat went dry. A pain gripped her chest.

The motions became desperate, the mage finally discovering a small satchel. It was sloppily untied, a meager amount of dust revealed; Sigourney poured its contents on the back of her hand, the limb trembling beyond her control and spilling the precious powder. The satchel was emptied; she steadied her hand, bringing it to her nose to inhale sharply.

The pain in her chest dulled to an insistent throb.

_Not enough_ … _Not anywhere near_ …

Oliver whined, nudging her leg.

She opened her eyes. "Are you all right?"

He barked in affirmation.

"Good." She took an unsteady step; **dizzy** – _lightheaded_ … "Let's go."

The shadowed alleyway enveloped them once more, the mage turning toward the alienage. 

* * *

 

A sound barely there.

Merrill glanced up from the tomes she'd been reading.

_Had someone knocked_?

She rose from her chair, heading toward the door.

Hardly anyone visited…Well, that wasn't _entirely_ true: Isabela visited her every now and again – so did Varric, the sweet man – and burglars, of course – though not as often as Hawke did: oh, she hoped it was–

"Hawke!" She smiled; the human secured a hand against her doorframe.

"Merrill…"

"I had hoped it was you, but I'd already been fortunate enough to see you earlier in the day, so I didn't want to assume–" Hawke's body slumped, lids drawn low – she felt her brows instantly scrunch together. "Is something wrong?" She scanned the other's figure, half draped in darkness. "Are you all right?"

"Merrill…" repeated – how did the other's voice sound so far when she was so near? " _Lyrium_ …"

Sigourney fell forward.

"Hawke!" The elf quickly moved to catch her, supporting her weight. "I – yes – I have a few vials in my cupboard. Here: I'll help you inside."

An apology was murmured and Merrill shook her head, the other woman doing her best to walk as she led her to a chair, setting her down gently. Hawke's hound licked her hand, making such a sad sound, before lying next to his master.

**Blood** stained her jacket–

Her _neck_.

She gasped. "Hawke…What happened?"

"The Red Iron…" her eyes closed, breaths labored, "attacked Carver."

A hand found her mouth. "They…" wasn't that the group he worked for – _they_ worked for? Why would they attack one of their own? Merrill shook the thoughts away – that didn't matter now. "Is he all right?"

"He's…" her lips pinched, as if hating the words they were about to release, "He would not let me heal him." A harsh breath. "Just like you."

Her eyes moved on their own, finding the place her newest scar resided…Before opening a nearby cabinet's doors, fingers searching past the few pieces of silverware she had. "Did you confront them?"

"I killed them."

A backward glance.

Hawke's eyes were open.

She felt a shiver at her spine: the pale orbs were so _cold_ …The elf silently opened the vial of lyrium, pressing it to her lips. "Drink this…"

A weak nod; the human tilted her head, eyes closing once more.

Her thumb shifted along the emptying glass.

Hawke leaned into the back of the chair, nails digging in the wood of its arm.

The vial was removed.

The other mage exhaled.

Merrill stared at her parted lips, the pink of the tongue used to clean them….

Sigourney shifted, dark strands spilling over an eye. "Thank you." The other woman glanced up at her, grey orbs half-lid again; she felt a startling heat rush to her cheeks. "I always seem to end up here, in need of something…And you're always here, eager to help." A pause. "It seems I'm the true nuisance in this relationship."

She set the empty container down. "You could never be a nuisance; it isn't in you, I think…" a smile, "And, I'm happy to be the one helping you for once – it's nice to return the favor." She paused, suddenly noticing their proximity as she leaned forward, before her hand moved to peel back the collar of her jacket, revealing more of the red that marred her neck. "Were you badly injured?"

"I overexerted myself." She looked…disappointed? Bothered? "I was foolish."

"You were upset. They hurt your brother." Fingers finally regaining a bit of their sense, loosened the collar as she stood to her full height. "I'll find a rag. You're both covered in blood."

Sigourney nodded, staying silent as her gaze fell to her small fireplace, filled with slowly dying embers. Merrill frowned, collecting a tin she used to gather raindrops from her leaky roof off the floor, before turning a rusty faucet.

The elf waited for the stream of water to change from brown to clear.

_What had happened?_

Thoughts filled her head as quickly as the metal basin did with water: the other woman had come to her house exhausted from battle, weakened by lyrium deprivation – Creators, had she fought all those dangerous men **_herself_**?

She felt her stomach wrench at the thought.

Hawke's use of magic was masterful, utterly deadly and controlled, but even she was still subject to the fatal effects of mana depletion…But there was something else – something **deeper** , _further_ than surface.

Something lyrium could not fix….

The water was turned off.

Merrill grabbed a worn rag, returning with the items to the other woman still staring at the fireplace; lively flames jumped and shivered.

Hawke's expression was neutral. "It's so quiet here…"

Another frown – had her uncle yelled at her terribly for her visit after she left? "I can stop talking, if you like." She kneeled, dipping the rag in water. "I know I often do it too much…"

"No." Their eyes met. "Your voice is fine."

Merrill colored from the words, dabbing the cloth against her accommodating Mabari's fur. There was a time when Hawke told her she appreciated not being asked about the things that brought her here – but the other looked so extraordinarily sad and lonely – before she knew it – her mouth was open, the words already tumbling out. "Would you tell me, then…if something were wrong?"

A tight-lipped smile; the elf was sure she would only get an answer stating otherwise. "I had a sister…Before Kirkwall. Bethany." One of the embers popped. Merrill nearly dropped the rag she held – a _sister_? "She…died. While we fled the Blight. It…" her brow creased deeply, "was my fault. Just as this is." Her hands balled into fists, trembling. "He could have _died_."

The other's eyes were **_heartbreaking_** …Merrill released the rag, it falling in the water as she placed her hands on top of the other's. "I'm so sorry…"

Sigourney stared, the same sort of painful unfamiliarity – as if she'd never heard such things. "How is it that you do that?" The elf shook her head, not understanding. "With words. Somehow, you make it…easier." The other appeared genuinely curious.

"Do I? It's hard to tell sometimes…" her fingers found the rag again, an excuse to glance away as she wrung it over the basin, "But, I am glad for it… Making things easier." She stood, pressing the damp cloth to her cheek. "I feel the same about you."

Grey eyes searched her own inquisitively; her throat went dry. "You're so kind. You do things I could never agree with…Yet, you're still the person that you are." Twin brows furrowed. "I don't know how to gauge you."

A half smile. "Oh, good – I'd rather not be placed in a box. Too many sharp edges – terribly dangerous…" The cloth trailed down, fingertips slipping past the rough fabric to graze the skin that so resembled sand on a sunny day, admiring the contrast. "You're honest, Hawke. Everything about you is what another can see – it's…wonderful. Frightening. You show all the blemishes people hide with your certainty." She reached her neck, gently cleaning the blood there, relief swelling within to know it wasn't her own. "Being with you…I almost miss it…."

"Some things are certain, Merrill."

"Not anymore."

A probing look: one that made her want to squirm and remember to breathe. "I've imposed; you've gone through so much trouble that could have been avoided had it not been for me."

"You were hurt…" her hand found its way back to an olive cheek, and – by the **_Dread Wolf_** , why could she not _control_ herself tonight?

Hawke's eyes lingered on the fingers, before shifting back to her. "I should go."

"Will it be noisy there?" The other's gaze fell; she did not move. "You could stay. Where it's quiet."

"Until we argue?" Hawke rose from the chair, her touch slipping away. "Carver was still injured when I left. And I've no doubt my mother would assume the worst if I did not return."

The elf nodded solemnly, watching her Mabari rise as well. "Will you visit again…Before your expedition?" She followed the other woman to her door. "I'll be there to send you off, of course…But, I'd like a chance to make up the dinner we missed."

"I'd like that."

She smiled, opening the door. "Travel safely, Hawke."

A smile back. "Yes."

Her hound left.

Hawke hesitated.

"Talking…like this." Merrill stared at her back. "I've never…beyond my sister…" there was a heaviness in her chest from the jumbled words, the effort needed to say them, "Thank you."

She could only nod, despite the other not being able to see it. "I'm so glad."

Hawke stepped into the night.

Merrill watched, whispering a small prayer of gratitude to the Creators.


	5. Dissonance

Aveline paced.

Long, agitated strides, to and fro.

"There were several bodies found on one of my men's patrols the other night." More deliberate steps. "A routine run in Lowtown. Near the harbor." Sharp – _accusing_ ; the other's armor clanked in time as she continued to conquer the length of her office. "Two of the victims were found impaled, another pair mauled to death, and the rest so badly burnt, they were beyond recognition." Aveline stopped, finally regarding the mage sitting across her desk with a hard stare. "And then there was Meeran, a clean slit across his throat."

"My doing." Sigourney stared ahead evenly. "All of it."

The admittance only served to darken the captain's countenance further. "That, I managed. What I failed to understand was why I had to hear that from a guard's mouth instead of yours."

Silence. There was no reason to exasperate this…unpleasantness.

A gauntleted hand slammed against the desk. "Dammit, Hawke – why didn't you come to me?"

A single brow rose from the display. "It wasn't your issue to resolve." The other's nostrils flared; she ignored the detail: agreed with or not, the statement was no less true. "There was also a matter of time. If I had come to the Keep for your assistance, Meeran and his men would have gained an opportunity to go into hiding or recruit others." No matter how prone the other was to fierce outbursts, even she appreciated logic. "Given the urgency, I handled the situation how I saw fit."

Aveline's face flushed angrily, the freckles there beginning to meld and disappear. "What if a templar found that scene before my men did? They'd know an apostate, capable of killing nine armed men, was loose and go to any lengths to bring them in – including requisitioning the aid of the city guard."

The mage folded her hands. "Impalement; burns; a slit throat: all injuries we've encountered while patrolling Kirkwall's streets at night. Perhaps those burned could be called into question, but one does not need magical ability to access fire. It also isn't unlikely an organization such as theirs would be tortured before they died." Sigourney paused…straightening in her chair. "The templars wouldn't have discovered anything to link me to the crime. Yet, if they did, I could be confident no one associated with me would be affected."

Aveline was around her desk in a flash, eclipsing everything else from view as she seized the collar of her jacket. "This is _my_ city – you're _my_ friend. Your brother–" her eyes narrowed, fingers crushing against leather, "You can't keep doing this, Hawke! You can't keep making decisions for others!" She was unaltered; the captain shook her. "They _attacked_ Carver!"

"I am aware."

"Then why wouldn't you let me _help_ you?''

The mage held her tongue, silence filling the room, once more, before she looked away. "Would you?"

"Would I _what_?"

"Would you take the risk?" Their eyes met again. "After everything we've been through – everything we've lost – would you allow anything the chance of stealing something away from you again?"

Her brows furrowed. "That isn't fair."

"You are the captain of the guard – am I to call on you for every situation involving my family?" The implication was clear; Aveline was silent. "Meeran and his men were unlawful mercenaries for hire, bribes, threats and extortion the very least of their crimes. Sooner or later, they would have gone too far. Sooner or later, someone would had to have dealt with them." Her tone grew colder – detaching fully from this person with the capability of making her emotional. "Given my history and their actions, the choice was clear."

"And my feelings on this? That you could have been captured by templars and _killed_." Even more than the anger and frustration – _hurt_. "Leandra's?"

Sigourney removed the woman's hand. "Am I under arrest, Aveline?"

A tense moment.

The woman's jaw tightened.

"No."

The mage stood to her feet. "Then I'll be on my way."

A step toward the door.

Another.

"I'm going, Hawke." The guard captain's tone pierced through the room. "Don't think to stop me."

Sigourney tensed, leaving without another word. 

* * *

 

"Thanks for meeting me." Carver paused, the lines of his face hardening as he lowered himself onto the bench. "I…wanted to see you." He consciously hid a bruise. "Before the expedition."

Merrill smiled at the sentiment, shifting slightly – she'd never understand Hightown's obsession with stone. It was cold and hard and dismal, and the nobles decided to make their chairs from it. "I heard what happened – I wanted to see how you were." She did her best not to stare at the angry purples, blues, and blacks the man couldn't conceal. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine." He sounded like his sister – though, Merrill doubted he'd appreciate being told such. "Some scars here and there, but I had my share before that mess with Meeran – not that a few more will kill me." His arms crossed, the muscles there rippling impressively. "Some women even find that sort of thing attractive…"

"Why? Getting scars certainly isn't pleasant – why would anyone be attracted to it?" The man looked at a loss; Merrill assumed it was another human construct she wouldn't understand. "Your sister…she came to the Alienage after fighting those awful men who attacked you." His expression soured. "I'd never seen her that way: deprived of lyrium – utterly exhausted – yet, all she spoke of was you. How she could have lost you…" she thought of her time with Hawke – how she often lacked the words, how anger often came _first_. "Sometimes…it's easier to argue with someone rather than talk things out with them."

"You're taking _her_ side?" _Bitter_.

The elf frowned. "I wasn't aware there were sides – not with family." Even blacklisted as she was, an outcast in her own clan, she was still Dalish. She would always _be_ Dalish. Some bonds couldn't be broken.

"You don't understand."

"I understand what it is to be alone. To have no one on your side…" Carver turned to her, brows furrowed. "She loves you. You should make up with her."

He grimaced. "Like she'd need anyone to do something for her…"

"She does." Her feet brushed against more of the harsh stone. "We all do."

"What about what I bloody need?" Silence; she watched Carver run a rough hand through his hair, shaking his head, "This isn't how I wanted to tell you this…Look – I didn't mean anything by that, I just," his eyes seemed even darker, the orbs holding too many emotions at once, "I'm so sick of everything being about my sister. Each time we're together, there's no place for me." Another frown; Merrill shifted on the bench once more, the loneliness of his words making her uncomfortable more than the stone. "I've…been considering joining the templars. Not now, of course: I'd be a sorry state, but after the expedition with Bartrand. When I have more than two coins to rub together." He quickly shook his head. "And, you don't have to worry – it's not like I'd give you away, if I did join." His expression darkened. "I wouldn't let them touch you."

She smiled – despite her first thought being about Hawke. "I never worried."

The man seemed shocked. "I…Right – of course." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Listen. I've been meaning to ask – or, I wanted to since I knew you'd meet me today…" a cross between a sigh and a groan, "Have you eaten? Recently, I mean. I could buy you a meal. We could go to one of the fancier restaurants here in Hightown – if you'd like."

"That's very sweet, but I'd feel terrible watching you spend your hard earned coin on me when it isn't necessary. Especially when you could be using it on things to help you heal faster." A pause; she glanced towards the markets. "Beyond that, I wouldn't be able to go – not tonight, anyway. There's a spice I've been searching for, one of the merchants in Lowtown told me I could find up here. I'll need it for tonight: for the dinner I'm preparing."

"Dinner?" Carver's shoulders stiffened, as if readying for a blow. "With who?"

Merrill bit her lip again – Creators, why did she suddenly feel so guilty? Her dinner with Hawke wasn't anything to be ashamed of – and they had done it so many times before…But, the man had seemed so down, earlier, so terribly defeated…. "It's Isabela – I hardly get to see her some days and I always worry with her eating from the Hanged Man as regularly as she does. And then she told me she never sees me eat at all, so I suppose we'll both get something out of it." She couldn't stop the stream of words, as if the more she spoke, the easier it would be to forget the lies that escaped her. But something told her, _this_ was for the best.

 _Yes_ …

Carver nodded. "I see. That's…good." Another stiff nod. "It makes sense, you two being friends and all – you should spend time together."

Merrill mirrored his nod, deciding not to give more words where there was no need. "You'll be careful, won't you? Down in the Deep Roads." She felt her brows scrunch together, eying the bruise he'd hid earlier. "You've already been hurt – I'd hate for it to happen again…" the elf felt she should do something – say something – _more_ ; she placed a hand on his arm. "I'd prefer seeing you without those, the next time we meet."

A wide smile spread his lips. "It's a date." 

* * *

 

"What are you thinking?"

Hawke gazed up from her tome, looking to her instead. "Hm?"

"You're not focusing on the words." Merrill pointed the dulled knife she held in her direction, indicating her forehead. "You have that little wrinkle above your brow that you always get when you're deep in thought about something."

The other stared, flashes of…shock? Interest? Before they were both gone (had they ever been?) and she was smiling. "I didn't realize I was so transparent."

"No – well, not really. I was staring, is all." She was grateful it was only seconds, her head catching up to what her mouth had already spoken. "Not deliberately! It's just," she bit her lip, hoping to hold the words in or be clever enough to come up with new ones, but Hawke was still staring, and– "you're lovely when you're reading. Your entire body responds to it, like a flower in the sun. It's all very pleasant to watch." The other's gaze fell; she bit her lip again. "You're actually quite mysterious! Not transparent at all!"

"Mysterious?"

Merrill shook her head – oh, how she wished there was a magic to control the tongue! Not that it would matter with Hawke around – really, it was only her fault with that demeanor of hers, and that _sureness_ , and that smile…More so when things were still the slightest bit tense between them, the dinner she prepared not as innocent as all the others – it all _exhausting_. Like trying to dance around a gaping hole in the earth without falling in…

While making a _terrible_ _mess_ of cleaning vegetables.

The elf sighed. "This is going all wrong. I've offended you and I've cut too much out of the potatoes again, and–" She winced, a cry from surprise more than pain as the blade nicked another of her fingers.

Hawke immediately rose, joining her at the wobbly table she'd cleaned for the task to examine the injured hand. "Are you all right?"

She quickly nodded, feeling the odd tingle of healing. "I wish you wouldn't fuss over it. It's the tinniest cut and I only have it because I was distracted."

"Am I distracting you?" She colored. "You hadn't offended me, Merrill: I was surprised. As I said, I hadn't realized I was so transparent." The other appeared disappointed. "I can't seem to stop thinking…"

Merrill breathed – between the other's touch and proximity, it was possible she'd forgotten to. "You should say what's on your mind. Just…let it out."

Pale orbs found her, making her feel helpless with their intensity. "That is…terrifying."

A nod. "It is, isn't it? The words could get jumbled, you'd end up saying something you didn't mean – all the mistakes…" she didn't know what she was saying – how could she know what she was saying? All she knew was that she wanted a step _forward_ , for Hawke to talk like she had the other night. For them to be _normal_ …Whatever that happened to be. "Still…it's awfully brave, in a way. Sharing." The barest inch closer. "Even if it isn't perfect…."

A war waged in the other woman – one she was allowed to _see_ as silence engulfed them both; Hawke released her hand. "You should be more careful when handling a knife."

Merrill frowned. "I'm usually better at it." The other's eyes narrowed. "It can hardly peel vegetables, yet it's managed to cut my fingers several times."

"I could finish what you've started." The knife was in the human's possession before she could protest. "I know you wished to prepare this dinner single-handedly, but I'd prefer making myself useful."

"I wasn't aware one had to be useful when another did something for them."

"It isn't often others do things for me." The potato she'd worked on was lifted, Hawke applying a careful pressure with the blade. "When they do," a deeper cut, "I tend to be a poor recipient."

 _Yes_ – it was a thing the elf had noticed from time to time: even when receiving something as wonderful as praise, the other often appeared unfamiliar. "Why?"

"Relying on others is synonymous with danger." Bits of brown fell to the table. "Is that not how your people are? Self-reliant? Reluctant to seek outside help?"

"Few would accept aid from those who stole so much from them." Instinct: a barb ready on the tongue – despite the lack of malice.

"Do you hate humans?"

Their eyes met.

"I hated one." She felt the burn of Hawke's eyes upon her, even as she looked elsewhere. "You asked why I was nervous when we first met…I told you about the Grey Warden who stole one of our hunters." It was a thorny subject, difficult to traverse, difficult to _bear,_ even after all this time…The mere thought of that man _intruding_ – breaching the sanctity of their grounds – was enough to awaken the deep, simmering scorn always just beneath. "He was such a _shemlen_ …Arrogant, like in all the tales. Coming to my people and just _taking_." Her hands clenched. "Whatever it is he wanted." An _ugly_ **_bitterness_** , one that would always surface just before she remembered her clan gave her up in a similar fashion; her brows furrowed. "Do you hate the templars?"

The last potato was apprehended. "Hatred is conditional. If the templars had not persecuted my family, if I had not been born a mage, would I hate them then?" The vegetable spun in her hands. "The templars are an inconvenience. Even so, we've managed to work together for the greater good."

Merrill smiled. "That was very diplomatic."

The knife paused. "But not what you wanted."

"No." The elf reached for the sliced carrots, placing them in a bowl to add to the rusty cauldron set over the fire. "I was hoping for something less rehearsed – I imagine you say that sort of thing quite a bit to those who aren't mages." She gathered the onions. "That must be so tiring; constantly being the thing each person wants to see."

Hawke was silent, yet another wrinkle above her brow a signal she was _thinking_ as she set the naked potatoes in a row to be cut. Merrill watched the human work, even, symmetrical slices. Perfect. Again and again – even with the dulled blade…She eyed her own haphazard piles, more jagged chunks than precise wedges; she discarded a few.

"What do you see?"

 _Sudden_ –

Merrill quickly looked to the other woman, a "what" almost leaving her lips, before the pieces clicked into place. "A woman who does her best for the people around her…Not showy, exactly – but always there."

"I…try to be." Another war, shifting her features. "I want to meet all of the expectations. I have to – the alternative is being a burden." The elf felt her brows dip: that couldn't be true – Hawke could never be a burden – who would tell her such a thing? Was it her family? "What you said earlier…You were right. It takes courage to be imperfect. To simply be."

"And, who are you?" She found herself unable to stop, needing to dig just a little bit _deeper_ , "Beyond the roles and duties you place on yourself – when there isn't anything left, who are you then?"

"An apostate."

"That's a title."

Frustration lowered her brows. "What are any of us beyond our titles? What can we be?"

"Ourselves. Perhaps the hardest role of all…" Hawke studied her; a self-conscious shift. "What? Did I say something stupid again?"

"You are…confounding." The _severity_ of her gaze – heat flooded her body. "Deceptive; the more I'm led to believe, the less I truly know. Yet, I've met no other outside my family willing to give such effort." The knife was set aside, the other facing her fully. "Why are you so patient with me? I don't agree with your use of blood magic; I've not met your expectations – what could you possibly hope to gain?"

"It isn't that simple." The forcefulness of the words, the way they just tumbled out, momentarily shocked her – _wasn't it_? If Hawke wasn't for her, then she was against her, like all the others – like the _Keeper_ – and…it shouldn't matter that she came to visit and made sure she had food and… _Creators_ , she hadn't expected it so bluntly! "Being with you – friends," a hasty addition, "it isn't some requirement. I-" what _did_ she want out of their relationship? Was it a selfish thing? To not be lonely? It certainly couldn't be anything more…Could it? She felt an attraction to the other woman akin to the hallas' pull of the aravels, and sometimes it felt useless… but…Well, she was in control of what her body did and didn't do in the end, wasn't she? "I enjoy your company. We're…different. We think differently. Perhaps we'll learn something from each other. But, you're a good person, Hawke – you're…" _beautiful_ ; "good." She suddenly crossed her arms, not understanding why she was the only one being questioned. "What about you? It isn't only one-sided – why are you here?"

An unbearable pause; so long, Merrill thought it might be forever… _until_ – "I don't know." And it's the look on her face – the rare _confusion_ – that told her it was a thing the other woman did not say often. "It isn't logic. It isn't a role. I want to help you." The elf frowned. "I don't want to fix you. That isn't necessary."

"What's necessary is alleviating the plight of my people. And, while I'm sure I understand the term, I find myself doubting if others actually do." Why else would so many insist they knew what was best for her? She certainly didn't go around telling them what they should do with their lives. Perhaps she should more often? She might fit in better. "Why do you even want to help me? I haven't asked for it. And the promise you made to the Keeper was met the moment we set foot in Kirkwall."

The look Hawke gave her now, as if she couldn't possibly understand her reasoning, only made the prickly feeling in her chest grow. "You could do anything, Merrill – you could be so selfish…Yet, you choose to help your clan. Even when they ostracize you, you still wish to make their lives better." Her gaze was unfaltering. "I have the utmost respect for your intentions. It is your methods I find drastic."

"Drastic?" Her grip on the bowl tightened. "Like braving the Deep Roads to find one's fortune?"

"Yes – how fortunate I did not have to deal with a demon to do so."

Merrill's eyes narrowed – always, when others ran out of accusations, out of sharp, hurtful things, it came to the spirit she'd found. "We've both spilt blood for what we believe in, Hawke."

Hawke reached for the knife, raising it between them. "I don't use this."

"You cut yourself in other ways."

A pause. "Because I am willing to admit when I am wrong."

"Does that happen?" She moved past the other woman, dumping the bowl of vegetables into the bubbling brew. "You being wrong, I mean."

The following silence was significant enough that Merrill was forced to look in the other's direction; she willed her exasperation not to weaken from the new expression. "I'm only human, Merrill."

"You are, aren't you?" A bitter smile. "And I'm only an elf." She returned to the table, busying her hands with guiding the cut potatoes to the bowl. "Should we talk about something else? I'd hate for this to turn unpleasant before we've eaten." The elf secured a stirring spoon. "It shouldn't be much longer. It's a fairly simple broth."

Another of those awful pauses. "The templars – do you hate them?"

Merrill glanced up from her task. "Why?"

"You said my answer sounded rehearsed." Hawke's face revealed nothing of her intent. "I'd like to hear yours."

The elf sighed. "I don't understand them. Their purpose…But, I also don't understand why humans feel the need to lock their mages away." The last of the cut potatoes were collected. "To confine something simply because it's dangerous – how would anything get done?"

"But you don't hate them."

"I hate what they stand for. Isn't that enough?" She pinched several spices, sprinkling the wedges liberally before returning to the fire. "It is for everyone else."

"Do you hate the elves here in the city?"

The tipped bowl clanked against the metal cauldron. "Should I?"

"I was told city elves weren't considered equals by one of your clansmen. That they've forgotten themselves – given up their identities to live amongst humans."

A backward glance; Merrill felt the anger pop and smolder all over again, but was unable to answer why – maybe it was the infuriating calm Hawke always managed. Maybe it was the fact that the other woman had, once again, caught her off guard. The city elves? In all truth, she hardly felt anything for them. No…maybe pity. They were husks. Illusions. They looked like her. They had the same parts – the same shapes – but they were something else entirely. _Din_. As if their ears could be discarded as easily as their clothes - and, how to explain _that_ to a human?

"It's sad they've forgotten. Their legacy; their culture…" the sadness struck her heart, their loss a dull ache, "They're stuck here. An endless, desperate struggle leading them nowhere…The chains gone, but in bondage still."

A steady gaze. "So, you hate them."

Her jaw tensed. "No."

"It doesn't enrage you they're content to live that way?"

"Of course it does! How would you feel seeing your people confined to a single place, wailing and begging – _festering_? Unable to save themselves…" the spoon fell from her grasp; she felt herself shaking, "I hate their weakness. I hate how they allow their lives to be ruled by fear. I hate that they could be so much _better_ than they are…They just don't _know_ it."

"But you don't hate them – you can't. Not completely. Because some part of you knows if you had not been born Dalish, if you had not been given a sense of worth, you'd be right there with them." Merrill stared at the human – glaring – was it really that simple? She couldn't imagine a world where she wasn't who she was, a world without a clan, or the old gods – _Mahariel_ – but the lines were too thin, Hawke made them too _thin_ …And she lived among flat ears, regardless. The other followed her to the fire. "For every power, a check is needed. The templars exist because their role was made necessary." Her eyes were steel. "That I do not hate them is the same reason there are templars who do not hate mages."

She shook her head. "Why must you be so severe? Believing in things simply because they're there – why are there only absolutes with you?"

"Because that is the way the world sees me." A _pang_ – slipping past her anger – the words entirely too **weighty** : a thought made fact long ago. "I am allowed to make my own decisions. There is no one to regulate me, but myself. If I did not evaluate each side of every circumstance, how else would I discern what is true? How else would I be certain?"

"You can't – not really – isn't that the point?" Why else would anyone fight for things? Why else would anyone _try_? "We're supposed to struggle and stumble about and hope to find our way – honestly, how else would we ever learn? How can you if you're always certain?"

"I'm not. I am uncertain about you." Merrill blinked – _what_? That couldn't – did she mishear? She must have – she misheard and the other woman would say more of her sure things and they would surely argue again; Hawke's gaze fell to the weathered floorboards…before returning. "I don't know you. I don't know what it is to be Dalish, the burden that accompanies being your clan's First. I don't know your frustrations: what it is to lose your identity as a people, yet still muster the will to keep searching. I don't know what set you on this path – why you're so convinced it is the only way." The steel of her eyes softened – there so much _truth_ there…."I don't know you, Merrill. But I would like to. Given the opportunity."

A lump in her throat; the elf rendered speechless from the words, from how handily the other could turn her emotions – make her _want_ to forget – until she was left completely out of sorts and – _and_.… ** _Creators_** : she hated how Hawke made everything more complicated than it had to be! How the woman couldn't merely pick a side and _stay_ there – and now she had all this heat – this anger – and nothing to _do_ with it…She glared uselessly at the steaming cauldron.

"I lost the spoon. The broth's done, but the spoon fell in while we were talking and now I can't find it."

"Can I help?"

Merrill nodded wordlessly, moving aside to grab the cups and utensils she had from the cupboard.

"It smells wonderful…" Hawke dipped the knife she held into the stew, sifting, delicately, through its contents.

She fetched the bread and boiled water. "Because you helped, I'm sure. I'd have made a disaster of it, otherwise."

"I only prepared a few potatoes," the handle of her stirring spoon was suddenly revealed, the other coating it with a thin veil of ice before securing it in her hand, "you did the rest."

Their eyes met briefly; Merrill concentrated on pouring. "You should sit. I'll get the bowls, after this, and serve you."

Hawke nodded, setting the recovered spoon down before pulling back a chair; the elf returned to the cupboard, retrieving two clay bowls she had bought just for the occasion.

She filled both liberally, taking the one with the crack down its lip while handing her guest the unblemished one.

Hawke thanked her, the human waiting until she sat as well before taking a spoonful of her creation and exhaling softly.

Merrill watched as she ate – couldn't help _but_ to; the flow of her movements, the polite sips from her spoon – how she made something so normal so–

 _Wonderful_.

She was _entranced_ …

Pale orbs flicked to hers.

"Merrill?"

Her face heated; she quickly took her spoon. "I…was only thinking." That wasn't a lie – not entirely. "Do you remember the first time we did this?"

Hawke smiled – Creators, where had _that_ been? And what had she done to get it? "It feels so long ago…What a terrible dinner that had been."

"It was perfect." She had loved that night: the two of them reading, side by side, without judgement or expectation, until she could no longer fight the waves of sleep…She'd woken with a pillow under her head and a blanket draped over her, the tomes she scoured neatly tucked away. Hawke had already gone…A wrinkle took her brow. "Why did you leave?"

"I felt I had intruded long enough."

"I wish you would intrude more." She wasn't given an answer. Perhaps the other didn't know what to do with it. Did she? Why had she said it? "You'll be moving soon." Hadn't they already discussed this? The other woman neatly tore a piece from her bread. "Most of the people in Hightown seem eager to forget what's beneath them." The nails of her free hand dug into the coarse wood of the table. "Will you still visit?"

Her expression dimmed. "I can't imagine you'd want me again if tonight is any indication of the future."

"Of course I want you." Hawke wiped her lips; the tips of her ears burned. "Here – for dinner – not for anything–" she shook her head, "just for dinner."

"You're very gracious." The tattered cloth was removed and Merrill wondered what it might be to taste what they hid…Oh, but that was wrong, wasn't it? She shouldn't… _think_ those sorts of thoughts. "I mentioned earlier how I am often a poor recipient of others' good will; no one has ever cooked a meal for me beyond necessity." A pause. "Despite our…disagreements," the word seemed almost pained, "I want you to know, I appreciate this."

Another _pang_. Because it was too easy – _too_ _easy_ to please her, when she had done so very little.

"Hawke…"

She smiled a smile her lips forgot before meeting her eyes. "You told a story when you last visited my uncle's home. To Oliver, my Mabari." The elf did not think she could flush further – she hadn't known the other had been listening. "I was only able to catch the end…though, I very much enjoyed hearing the tale."

"Probably because the words weren't my own – not like Isabela with her dirty stories or Varric's 'I shit you not' tales." She had done her best impression of the dwarf's gruff voice and Hawke chuckled, the sound _stunning_ – _bright_ …What had she been about to say? _Mythal_. "Stories. I'm not very good at them. The telling part – not like the others."

"I disagree." Her spoon was set aside. "You were very good. It was a beautiful tale."

A pulsing warmth – as if butterflies filled her stomach. "Would you like another?"

"Only if you wouldn't mind."

The slightest hesitance, given from a person who didn't expect much of anything – certainly didn't ask for it. The elf couldn't recall a time she wanted to give anything more.

"I've remembered so many things – from the Keeper or Hahren Paivel, so many stories: it seems a shame to keep them to myself." A smile. "I'd be the only one to appreciate them…But what to tell? Choosing is the hardest part. You have to be careful: not every story fits the occasion. Or the listener." She stared openly, losing herself in patient, grey pools. "A parable, maybe?"

Hawke nodded.

Merrill closed her eyes. "There once was a Keeper, very old and very wise, who grew terribly sick and neared the end of his life. He called for his First, as all Keepers do, to impart the last of his wisdom before he went to the Beyond. His First was heartbroken, of course – terribly so, that he would lose his guide, for the man had been like a father to him, and through the years, they had grown very close. So, the First entered the Keeper's tent with the greatest of hesitation, only moving forward when his dying mentor motioned him near.

'I have taught you many things,' said the Keeper, 'but there is one last thing I must give before I depart. Not for the clan's sake, but for your own.' Naturally, the First was curious – what was this thing? He thought he had learned everything, and could not think of what he had missed. Had he failed somehow? But even with old, tired eyes, the Keeper spotted his struggle.

'It is a lesson I could only give now. A lesson on life, before I welcome death.' The First was silent, awaiting what was to come; the Keeper took a labored breath. 'The entirety of my life, a fight has gone on inside me; a terrible fight between two wolves. One is evil: he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.' A weak, raspy breath, and he continued. 'The other is good: he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith.' The Keeper raised a trembling finger, pointing it at his First. 'The same fight goes on inside you – and, inside of every other person.'

The First thought over the words, running them again and again in his mind before, finally, asking his mentor, 'Which wolf will win?'

The old Keeper used the last of his strength to turn his head and look his apprentice in the eye, before simply replying, 'The one you feed.'"

Merrill opened her eyes; Hawke stared intently, something new in those grey orbs, a thing she could not recognize – or maybe she didn't want to – it swirling and dangerous…

 _Familiar_.

She cleared her throat.

"I should…wash the dishes – I always forget and they get awfully sticky or have those hard bits caked in them. Then the rats poke their little heads in and make their nests there."

"Please." Hawke stayed her hand. "You've made dinner and given me a lovely story. Allow me to clean." Her fingers lingered. "As a show of appreciation."

She didn't think she could say no to the other woman then, even if she could. "I'll help dry."

Hawke smiled, releasing her hand and Merrill sighed from the loss of it; the other rose from her chair, smoothly gathering their dishes before heading to the sink.

"Do you have something to clean with?"

Merrill hurriedly apprehended both a cleaning rag and a small towel while the other checked a murky stream of water. "Will this do?"

"Yes." Her smile remained. "Thank you."

The elf nodded as Hawke built up a lather, lifting a bowl to apply careful, thorough circles with the rag – wide, at first, before gradually becoming more minute. Creators, she made even _dish_ _washing_ a spectacle…

Merrill fiddled with the thin towel; the silence between them was comfortable, but she much preferred Hawke's voice. "Your expedition…Have you spoken to Varric's brother?"

The bowl was rinsed and handed to her. "I presented both the maps and coin he required. Though, I did inform Bartrand I would not be leaving the city until my brother was well enough to make the journey."

"I'm sure he'll be pleased. Carver, I mean – I don't think anything pleases Bartrand. He isn't a very happy dwarf, is he?" The elf followed the wet, rounded surface with her cloth. "I spoke to him earlier – your brother, not Bartrand."

Hawke's face was unreadable. "I see."

Her hand paused. "You're…disappointed?"

"No; I'm glad the two of you have spoken. I haven't seen much of Carver…since the attack." She scrubbed a spoon that had already been cleaned. "I believe he's avoiding me."

A frown. "I'm sure he isn't. We spoke of you – he spoke of you. Would you like to know what he said?"

Another smile that didn't quite make it. "He wouldn't approve of me meddling in his affairs. Less so since it seems he holds your conversations dear." The spoon was finally handed her way; she took it apprehensively. "He speaks of you often."

"Does he? I can't imagine why…" her brows furrowed, "Unless it's negative things – he is prone to that sort of talk. I'm sure I'm little more than a fool of an elf to him."

The other shook her head. "Carver regards you highly. He's more himself around you." Hawke's gaze fell to the bowl that remained, the vessel overflowing with cloudy water. "This…transition, has been hard on him – harder than I've realized. So often he's angry…" a flash of pain; their eyes met, "It's comforting to know there's someone he's taken a liking to."

"It's hard to tell, most times." The elf dried her spoon thoughtfully. "I suppose you two are alike in that sense. I never truly know where I stand." She watched the fall of dark, slender brows; the utensil was placed aside. "He seems well – Carver. Better. Given the dreadful things that happened to him." She gave the account slowly, hoping to grant Hawke all the answers to the things she did not ask. "He even told me he was thinking of becoming a templar…"

The sound of rushing water.

Merrill bit her lip, wringing the scratchy fabric in her hands. "It…hurts you, doesn't it?"

Hawke's lip shook – a tremor barely there. "The templars were always a separate matter. Removed. We each existed and fulfilled our roles." An unsure breath. Another. "To have one in my family…" her voice faded, "It feels like a betrayal."

Looking at the other woman, the elf's chest felt **full** , her throat _tight_ with sympathy. "He needs to find his own way. It has nothing to do with you."

"It has everything to do with me."

Cold.

 _Cutting_.

Merrill looked away. "Who else will you bring? Down into the Deep Roads?"

Hawke emptied the filled bowl, dutifully scrubbing its interior. "Bartrand requested I choose a small party; he felt it necessary to add doing so would require less mouths to feed." A look of distaste. "Regardless, Varric will obviously be there, and Aveline has made it clear she will not take no for an answer." There was something…off, about her tone – as if appreciative and vexed all at once. "I've also convinced Anders to accompany me, despite his initial reluctance. His knowledge of the Deep Roads will be invaluable. As well as his healing capabilities."

She briefly wondered what it must have been to have Hawke ask _anything_ of _anyone_ …before the thought became too heavy – too bothersome; she let it pass. "I'm glad. I would…think of you – down there. Miles beneath the earth, with every sort of creature lurking about – mostly the darkspawn – and I knew Varric would be there with Bianca – and now Aveline, who'll protect you better than anyone else ever could – and Anders will do most anything to keep you well, but–" she caught the other's unwavering gaze: calm – _patient_ , waiting for her to reach her point; the elf sighed helplessly, "I'll be sick with worry."

Hawke smiled. "We've taken every available precaution, Merrill: whatever dangers lie in the Deep Roads will be dealt with capably." The elf nodded, feeling a bit silly because – of _course_ – that would be her answer. A dripping bowl was passed. "When I return…" there was a pause, "I would like to do something with you. Outside of this house – outside of Kirkwall. A thing you would enjoy." The other faced her fully. "I thought, an afternoon near the Wounded Coast? I remember you mentioned wanting to swim there. We could plan a picnic." And it was that look again – unbearably _bright_ , speaking only of sincerity. "Would you like that?"

Merrill feared the bowl would slip from her fingers from excitement alone. "Oh, it sounds _lovely_ …"

"Then, we'll each have something to look forward to…." Warm, grey orbs captured her, and it felt as if her heart would beat right out of her chest…Until the other glanced elsewhere, a frown marring her lips. "I've lost track of time. I promised Mother I'd return early since I'd soon be away." Those eyes claimed her again. "Will you accompany me to the gate?"

"Yes – of course!" She colored, thinking if she nodded any more fiercely, her head would surely pop right off. "Let me just put these away…" she quickly collected the dried dishes, rushing to the cupboard to set them in whichever space would fit, before turning back to the other woman. "There."

Hawke smiled, her fingers gently grasping the wobbly knob of her front door to open it for her.

The elf exhaled as she stepped outside, an insistent breeze finding her the moment her foot touched the ground – the stench of her surroundings following soon after.

A beggar wailed miserably.

Numerous, harsh coughs.

Merrill felt a wave of shame encompass her – _swift_ and _unforgiving_ – as if _she_ were responsible for the dismal scene before them. She looked to Hawke, expecting disgust, disapproval – anything and everything that would be _negative_ …Yet, the human's gaze stayed only on the colossal tree that grew in the center of the Alienage.

It was a moment – two – before the other finally spoke. "I've always considered this tree a marvel. A thing continuing to thrive when surrounded by such darkness…" Hawke stepped toward it, placing a reverent hand on one of its brightly painted roots. "Its endurance is beautiful."

"Vir suledin…" the words spilled from her lips before her mind was even made aware, "To be made to endure."

"A thing we all learn."

"Some more than others."

Hawke's frown reappeared, as if trying to find the words, the declaration that would make it _better_ – mend the rift between them – yet failing.

Merrill sighed. Somehow, their moments always seemed bittersweet.

"We should go." A heedful glance. "The guards are rarely late."

The other nodded, retracting her hand to join their steps once more.

"Thank you." And even though the woman had said it once already, it still was every bit as wonderful. "You didn't have to make this dinner up to me."

"I did. I wanted to – if only to see you before you left." The words hit much harder then – a finality that had not been before…But now. _Now_ – "Hawke…"

She suddenly saw them – the shemlen guards who locked the elves away every night, with their tight lips and their stern faces.

And it was **_that_** feeling, the one that came just seconds before she knew she was going to do something utterly foolish – a thing she might regret – oh, but, everything was happening far too quickly. And, it was too late to stop it now….

Her lips grazed Hawke's cheek. "Dar'eth shiral…" she felt the other stiffen; relax – _Creators_ , she hadn't done this for Carver – why hadn't she done this for Carver? It was fine, wasn't it? It was fine and meaningless and it didn't have to be _more_ – it could just be what it was. Friends gave each other kisses; Merrill forced herself to part. "It's a farewell – one we give to our hunters whenever they depart on a dangerous journey." She swallowed shakily, touching the place she had kissed. "Be safe, Hawke. For my sake…"

Another unreadable expression. Frustrating. _Beautiful_ …Was it the slight chill that added a tinge of pink to the other's cheeks or something more? Hawke decided to nod. "Yes."

"Oy – you two!" A gruff voice barked roughly. "Wrap it up or take it somewhere else!"

Wrinkles creased the other's brow, but the elf merely shook her head, smiling as she released her. She saw the hesitation, the war waging in the other's eyes…before Hawke stepped away, turning toward the opening.

The gate slammed behind her.

The harsh sound of secured chains, and the guards went on their way.

A glance back… ** _Bittersweet_** …before Hawke continued forward.

Merrill pressed against the cold, iron gate, extending a hand as far as she could through the bars. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merrill's story was an adaptation of a Native American proverb.


	6. Cadence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bummed quite a few game lines – mostly for Bartrand. A bastard is a bastard is a bastard. No need to reinvent the wheel….
> 
> In other news: in an effort to maintain my own damn interest, I decided to break Deep Roads drama into parts. To be honest, I think writing about the expedition is one big challenge to see if you don’t bore your readers to death.
> 
> Ah, well.
> 
> Boo doo be doop.

* * *

Carver did not come.

Each step brought the weight of her decision, her brother’s words echoing, still, as they pervaded the eerie gloom of the Deep Roads.

 _We’re doing this for her bloody templars!_ _If anything, I should go and she should hide!_

Fury. Indignation.

Their mother had begged – _pleaded_ – and there was never a time she’d seen her so frantic; so _careless_ … 

So throughly convinced she would _fail_.

_Bethany was lost on your watch – how can I know your brother won’t be the same?_

Reproach. Accusation.

The **_pain_** had blindsided her…. 

She had no _defense_ for it.

A part of her foolishly dared to hope – hope she would never hear such scathing declarations again…Not from her mother. Not when she so dutifully bore the responsibility of her sister’s death. But in the elder woman’s desperation… 

_Selfishness_

She could not _risk_ it. Could not _bear_ that awful look on her mother’s face, again.

_Carver. Your sister’s only doing what she thinks is best._

_I know…I guess I’ll have to do the same._

And it was the _severeness_ of his features – the **_finality_** in his tone….

Whatever chance she had to save their relationship was lost.

A hand gripped her chest.

A storm shattered her heart.

Would it _always_ be this way? Salvaging one relationship with a member of her remaining family only to _break_ another?

When had _that_ become her only option?

“Hawke?” Polished plate invaded her view, the copper brows of its owner dipping noticeably. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Instinctive; her hand fell to her side. A breath. “Nothing is wrong, Aveline.”

The other’s expression hardened. “I need you here. It’s dangerous to drop your guard anywhere – but in a place like this…" her armor clanked ominously, "Too many things make their home in the dark. I won’t be taken by surprise – not down here.” The grip on her sword tightened. “And neither will you.”

An impartial nod. “I understand.”

Green orbs cut to her sharply. “Maker, Hawke – it’s like pulling _teeth_.”

Sigourney’s eyes narrowed. “We are in the Deep Roads; you’ve just instructed me not to lower my guard. What is there to say, Aveline?”

“To the friend who decided to accompany you on this incredibly dangerous outing?”  She huffed, steps heavier with anger. “Well, if you can’t think of anything nice, I’d start with ‘thank you’.” 

“I did not ask you to be here.”

Silence.

Chittering sounds echoed in the distance.

Aveline stared straight ahead. “All right.” _Strained_. “I expected you’d be upset–”

“Upset?” She turned to the woman with open frustration. “I am ‘upset’ because Kirkwall’s recently appointed captain of the guard is in the Deep Roads instead of the Viscount’s Keep, where she belongs.”

The other stopped abruptly, “I decide where I belong. Not you – not anyone else.” A fierce glare; Sigourney stepped aside, allowing the hirelings trailing behind them to pass, the men shooting wary glances. “You pushed this, Hawke. You and your damned certainty with this expedition…” creases etched her brow, “And given your actions with Meeran, it might do you good not getting your way. Just like Carver.” The mage’s shoulders tensed. “Who knows? Maybe he’ll finally swallow that pride of his and pick up a trade while we’re gone. Find that meaning he’s so willing to antagonize everyone he meets, for.”

Her nails dug into the leather of her jacket, the twinge in her chest quickly growing into an ache. “And if it’s with the templars?”

Sharp green orbs found her again. “ _What_?”

Several shrill screeches.

A scout screamed in agony.

“ _We’ve got spiders_!"

Sigourney secured her staff; Aveline unstrapped her shield.

“Varric!” Bartrand’s brusque tone rose above the shrieks and frenzy. “Grab our ‘partner’ and her tagalongs and take care of this!”

“Have a little faith, Brother.” Varric had already brandished his weapon, the modified crossbow firing rapidly at the army of corrupted spiders, blinding arrows pinning two of the creatures to a neighboring stalagmite. “Hawke, Bianca and I will have this mess cleaned up in no time – isn’t that right, Hawke?”

“Oh sure – forget about the person who made this entire trip possible.” Anders fired a bolt, the spider that leapt toward him crumpling in a mangled heap – before he flicked his staff, thrusting a bladed end into the twitching carcass. “I _hate_ the blighted Deep Roads…”

“Anders,” Sigourney summoned a wintry mix, slamming her staff against the ground, only to have icy trails instantly branch from the impact, glacial shards erupting from the earth and impaling the creatures, “I’ve created an opening. Make your way to the injured scout – he’ll need immediate attention.”

The former Warden quickly nodded, narrowing avoiding a concentrated blast of poison as Aveline thwarted its trajectory with her shield; he ran toward his target.

“Another one for me!” Varric exclaimed triumphantly, priming his weapon once more. “How many have you gotten, Hawke?”

More jagged shards. “Enough to keep me occupied.”

“Last one!” The guard captain charged with her shield, cleanly halving the poisonous spider with her blade; Aveline pressed a metal boot to its abdomen, retrieving her sword with a swift jerk. “Any casualties?”

“I think I got blood on my coat…” Varric grumbled.

Her expression hardened. “ _True_ casualties?”

“Only the one.” Anders moved the injured scout to a sheet of canvas, his hands pulsing with healing magics. “He was too far out when the spiders attacked; they managed to get to him first.”

Sigourney frowned, examining the beaten man. “Do you need assistance?”

“No: thankfully, it’s nothing too serious. Though, he’ll need rest. Time to properly heal.”

“Hmph. Not bad….” Bartrand kicked a lifeless carcass.

Varric wiped his sleeve. “Was that a compliment, dear Brother, or am I just imagining things?”

His scowl returned. “Don’t let it go to your head. Spiders aren’t darkspawn.”

“Haven’t sensed any of those in the area.” Anders supplied offhandedly, securing a roll of gauze from a hidden pocket in his robes. “We should be safe for now.”

“Oh yeah?” The dwarf raised a suspicious brow. “And just how does he know that?”

“Anders was once a Grey Warden.” Sigourney turned to the leader of their expedition. “He knows the nature of the Deep Roads – and darkspawn – better than anyone else here.”

The mage groaned. “Please don’t remind me…”

A smile. “As long as he is with us, we will never be flanked or ambushed.”

“By darkspawn, at least.” He added wryly. “Everything else trying to kill us down here is fair game.”

“See?” Varric added with a smirk, replacing Bianca back in her holster. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”

“Oy! Over there!” One of the hirelings pointed to a murky figure emerging from the shadows. “Isn’t that one of ‘em? One of the darkspawn?”

“You’re daft–” another hireling smacked him across the head, “it’s another of our scouts. Davik, I think his name, was.”

The returning dwarf nearly collapsed upon reaching them, his hands clasped to his knees as he huddled over to catch his breath. “T-there’s–” he sputtered wildly, coughing, “there’s been a collapse!”

“Calm down.” Sigourney removed the canteen resting at her hip. “Drink this; then start again.”

He nodded, thanking her before desperately gulping the canteen’s contents; he wiped his mouth quickly. “A collapse – on the path set to the east. It’s completely blocked our way forward; there isn’t any way we can break through it.”

“Obstacles, already?” Aveline crossed her arms. “We’ve barely left the surface.”

Sigourney nodded toward her canteen, urging the dwarf to drink more. “Is there no way around?”

The scout shook his head, glancing up contritely. “Not that I was able to find. And the only other paths were too dangerous to traverse alone.”

Bartrand’s eyes narrowed, the expedition leader calmly stepping up to the other dwarf – before slapping the canteen from his hands and punching him squarely. “ _Useless_!”

The scout fell to the ground.

She kneeled, examining the rapidly swelling jaw of the unconscious man before pressing a gentle hand to the wound. “Was that necessary?”

“Given the state of our current situation: _yes_.” He cursed, tossing a hand in the air. “Set camp!”

“And then?” The mage rose, pique creasing her brow as she recovered her canteen. “We cannot afford to remain idle – not for an extended period. If there is another attack, in so open an area, we won’t be able to properly defend against it.”

“Agreed. Stay here for too long, and we’re only targets.” Aveline looked to the distance, brows furrowing at the dismal view. “Exploring the paths your scout spoke of is the only option with any sense. If we’re lucky, we’ll find a way around your cave-in.”

Bartrand’s scowl deepened; Varric shrugged his shoulders. “Standing here, doing nothing, certainly yields no coin for any of us – wouldn’t you agree, Brother?”

“Fine, fine –” he snapped, turning away from them. “ just find a way past the damned thing! And be quick about it!”

The younger dwarf offered a bow. “We live to please.”

 

* * *

 

Unsettling silence.

Horrific decay….

The Deep Roads felt like a doomed creature, plagued by a death long overdue. Yet, it lived, still – _rasped_ …engineered channels of magma, coursing like lifeblood, lining their paths – providing a steady, tepid light.

Sigourney took in the grave, carved gazes of dwarven heroes, fingertips grazing intricately sculpted panels along the walls.

…A dying **_marvel_**.

Each additional artifact stirred selfishness, each newly traversed passage, a desire to explore – and she wished there was more _time_ …Hours allotted purely to investigation. The floors, the ceilings – even the structures supporting the tunnels were enormous in scale, damaged at intervals, yet wondrously crafted, seamlessly transitioning into ventilation systems that allowed air even in the deepest reaches.

Incalculable amounts of **_planning_** …

Her father would have been equally absorbed, despite the countless dangers. With each new discovery, she heard his voice, clearly – earnest and bright – creeping from memory, recounting wonders she could only imagine as a child:

The dwarven _empire_ …Its _glory_ – its _splendor_ – how the paths they walked were never empty, teeming with travelers, surfacers and dwarves alike, from even the farthest corners of Thedas….

Before the darkspawn.

Before the **Blights**.

Immediate – before she could _stop it_ –

 ** _Grief_** …

Bethany dragged from the recesses of her heart – snatched from the abyss and brought into glaring light. Even the Deep Roads, with all its planning – its **_arrogance_** – fell to the darkspawn’s dominion…Was it any wonder they managed to take _just as much_ from her?

Her sister.

Her home.

She looked to the ruins once more, seeing only _desolation_ – a mirror reflected back on her…it not the first time she agreed with her decision to leave her brother behind.

 _No_. _More_.

“Well, it’s official.” Varric’s gruff tone filtered through her musings, the dwarf coming to an early stop at the edge of an eroding cliff; he shook his head at the sea of lava stretching out before them. “My ancestors were nugshit crazy…”

Sigourney shifted the weight of the pack she carried: ironically, the dwarf and Grey Warden in their party were the least interested in their surroundings. “You don’t find it beautiful?”

“Sure.” He shrugged. “In a living tomb kind of way. And the neighbors are to _die_ for…”

A smile. “The darkspawn are nothing we can’t handle…Though, I am worried for Bodhan’s son.” They had found the odd dwarf, alone, doused in blood and surrounded by dozens of fallen darkspawn – smiling as if possessed. “I can’t help but think we should have accompanied him back to your brother’s camp.”

Varric scoffed, waving a hand. “You saw what he did to that ogre. If anything, we’d slow the boy down.” He abandoned the view, easily sidestepping a wide crack. “Shit. How long do you think it's been since anyone's walked here?” His eyes fell on several corpses. “Other than darkspawn, I mean.”

“And Wardens?” Anders added wryly.

The dwarf tossed a smirk his way. “Your lot doesn’t count.”

“Decades, at least. Centuries?” Aveline paused, eyeing a long abandoned weigh station ravaged throughly by time. “To actually give it thought…I don’t know if we should feel accomplished or terrified.” She shook her head incredulously. “Perhaps a bit of both.”

“Well, seeing as my brother would rather shave his own beard than let any of us freely feel that first one, I’m going to go with ‘terrified’. See where it takes me.”

“Between the jaws of a dragon?” Anders grinned. “Or maybe to a den of hungry spiders that’ll want to nibble on your shins…”

Varric chuckled. “That’s why I like you, Blondie. Forever the optimist.”

The ex-Warden shrugged — before his eyes narrowed; he quickly secured his staff: “Darkspawn ahead.”

Sigourney’s lips thinned: they had just finished dealing with a sizable group. “You’re sure?”

A grim nod. “It isn’t a feeling you forget.”

Rabid snarls spilled into the area, as if summoned, and in the distance, she could see ruthless, sunken eyes.

 _Soulless_.

Sigourney lowered her pack to the ground.

Their very existence is everything she _hates_.

“I’d prefer this end quickly.” Flames laced her fingers, gathering to the center of her palms. “Anders?”

“Right behind you.”

A storm of fire consumed the charging hurlocks, shrill, agonized shrieks drowned out by the crackling inferno. Varric whistled, picking off any survivors.

“Don’t look now…” Anders twirled his staff.

“Is that—?” Aveline choked the pommel of her sword.

“You have got to be shitting me…” Varric primed Bianca.

Sigourney bit her tongue, the world collapsing into a single point. “An ogre.”

“Hawke…” she could feel the other woman’s gaze — _hot_ and **heavy**.

A raised hand. “Go.”

Aveline hesitated, a noticeable tensing in her limbs evident even in armor…before charging the colossal creature, the harsh screech of metal against metal her answer as she blocked an armored arm with her shield.

Sigourney claimed her staff, nails digging into lyrium-infused wood.

An _ogre_.

She hadn’t faced one since her family fled Ferelden.

 _Since_ …

She fired several searing bolts of fire, the creature roaring in pain before raising plated arms to protect itself.

Aveline cried out, carving a bloody line from its chest to its ribs.

The ogre roared again, swinging a massive fist in her direction, only to meet steel once more, the guard’s shield catching the brunt of the attack.

She gritted her teeth. “Get me an opening, Hawke!”

Sigourney’s nails dug deeper. “Varric — its eyes!”

Arrows whizzed through the air, the ones that managed to pierce the ogre’s thick hide ignored.

“Shit.” The dwarf grunted, reloading. “Can’t get a clear shot!”

Her eyes found Anders and the man nodded, breaking into a sprint and firing bolts at its exposed side in an attempt to distract it. The beast immediately turned his way, the skin of its lips peeling back to reveal rotted, jagged fangs, before dropping its horned head and charging, the mage rolling out of its path just in time. 

Aveline lowered her shield, sword poised as she sunk her blade into the creature’s side.

The ogre bellowed thunderously, a fist arched high before it was viciously swung, knocking the guard off her feet.

“ _Aveline_!” Sigourney froze.

The ogre was on her in seconds, wrapping her in thick, merciless fingers — _squeezing_ — before slamming her against a wall, the vicious impact reverberating through the area. 

A hollow, _sickening_ sound.

Her ears rung loudly.

She sees only red.

Sigourney thrust her arm in the direction of the ogre, the limb pulsing with energy — her hand glowing — as her fingers curved sharply, clutching an unseen object. The beast howled, the arm that held Aveline raised against its will, the limb fractured at every juncture until bone was exposed and it hung grotesquely, the hand forced to relinquish its victim.

A blood-curdling roar.

The ogre charged.

Invisible fingers seized its leg, repeating the process:

Taking

Twisting

_Breaking_

Until the creature could only writhe pitifully against the ground.

Sigourney lowered her arm — dropped her staff — making her way to the ogre’s side to wrap both hands around the hilt of Aveline’s sword, freeing it with a grunt of effort, only to stab the creature again.

And again—

**_Again_ **

Until she was pulled back, deliberately dragged away, by a willful pair of hands.

“It’s dead, Hawke…” Varric. “It’s dead.”

Her chest heaved. She’s covered in blood.

Sigourney shrugged off his touch, running to Aveline, healing energies coursing through her despite how close she was to her breaking point.

Lyrium didn't matter now.

Aveline exhaled brokenly, inhaling with a pained hiss.

“You could have died.” The words were heavy. _Accusatory_. Sigourney’s eyes narrowed. “Your life is no longer your own. The city needs its captain of the guard alive.”

“Kirkwall won’t mourn the loss of one Fereldan.” She looked at her sharply; Aveline closed her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Even with the vague inquiry, the mage knew what the other referred to. “I didn’t know how to deal with it myself.”

“Carver’s a lot of things…A tit being the lead. But a templar?” Her lids opened, revealing disbelieving green orbs. “Even I didn't think he’d go that far to spite you.”

A hand hovered above her chest. “Then neither of us know him as well as we think.”

“I’ll take it from here.” Anders kneeled beside her, passing a cloth and a vial of lyrium, brown eyes firm, yet concerned. “You should clean yourself up. Don’t want that blood of theirs getting anywhere it shouldn’t.”

Sigourney rose, accepting both. “Thank you.” She cast a glance at the dead ogre behind them. She had…

Lost herself. Her control. But it was too close.

Too _close_.

She would not let an ogre steal another of her family.

“We should keep moving. Do you feel the presence of more darkspawn?" Anders shook his head. Sigourney pressed the cloth against her skin; it came back black. “When Aveline is able, we’ll continue our search.” A pause.

The other woman’s armor was dented and soiled.

* * *

 

Merrill frowned, tasking a finger to trail the drops languidly rolling down the sides of her glass. “Do you think Hawke’s all right?” Her feet swayed above grimy, wooden planks, idle, directionless circles back and forth. “I know it’s only been a week – but, it feels like _ages_.” A drop fell to the table; her brow creased. “I can’t help but worry….”

“I can…” Isabela took a lazy sip of her ale, watching the other fret with an eye peeked open, before slamming her mug down with a sigh. “Look: I’m sure Ser Do Right is just fine. Knowing her, she’s probably lecturing all those darkspawn to death.”

The elf’s frown deepened, an immediate image popping into her head of Hawke reprimanding the darkspawn in her sharp, sure way, but the creatures not listening – she simply couldn’t imagine darkspawn being so civil. No, she was fairly sure their “manners” extended only to graciously giving away the Blight.

“Wait…” Merrill’s eyes snapped up to meet the other woman’s, a smirk blooming on her lips, “Have you been holding out on me? There’s something between you two, isn’t there?” She felt her cheeks warm; Isabela’s expression grew. “What goes on during those nightly visits of hers?”

She straightened in her chair. “We eat a meal, is all. One of us cooks – usually her – though I was the one to cook last time. Nothing as wonderful as Hawke’s creations – she always puts in so much effort – but…Well, she seemed to enjoy it…” she shook her head, “Anyway. We just talk.”

Isabela raised an interested brow. “For hours on end? _Just_ talking?” Merrill nodded; the pirate sighed once more. “Oh, Kitten – you should just bed her. One good rut to get her out of your system. Then you’ll be right as rain.”

“I…” the heat rushing to her ears was close to _unbearable_ , “I don’t-”

Her brow inched that much higher. “You don’t want to bed her?”

“ _Isabela_.”

The other chuckled. “What? I know you favor those thick books of yours, but you still have needs. Needs that need proper _attending_ …” she reached over to pinch her cheeks and the elf was surprised the other’s fingers hadn’t melted on contact, “You are so _cute_ when you’re all embarrassed. Do you think Ser Do Right will hear you all the way in the Deep Roads? Honestly, Kitten, if you were ever going to say it, now’s the time.”

“I…” she faltered again before taking a breath – steeling herself, “Before Hawke left, I…kissed her.” Isabela’s brow jumped, impressed – Merrill quickly shook her head, mortified. “Not on the lips!” Her gaze fell to the table shyly. “Just…on the cheek.”

Isabela tsked and she felt oddly disappointed in herself…A dubious glance revealed the other woman securing her drink again. “It’s a start.” Another impressive draw of ale; Merrill drew absent patterns along her glass. “ _So_?” Sudden – the elf looked up questioningly; the pirate sighed a third time. “How _was_ it? Granted, it wasn’t a proper smooch, but with that blush, I’m assuming you felt _something_.”

Merrill felt her cheeks burn all over again as she closed her eyes, thought back to the night that felt so very long ago: the chill of the evening combating the warmth of flushed skin…A smile took her lips. “ _Wonderful_ …” it was only when Isabela set her mug down, again, the smirk on her face stretching even further, that she realized she hadn’t given a proper answer, “I suppose…it felt a bit like the first time I learned to wield lightening – dangerous and _exciting_ and…”

“Like one of those sparks shot straight to your nethers?” The elf found immediate refuge in her drink, sure everyone in the tavern was staring, now, from how irrefutably red she was; Isabela clucked her tongue fondly. “Oh, Kitten…It only means you’re doing things right.” A wink. “Now: did Hawke _react_?”

Her brow furrowed, and she felt irreparably self-conscious once more. “…Yes?” Hopeful. “Maybe?” Doubtful. “There was a bit of stiffening, and – well, she didn’t pull away…” a frown, “It’s just – she’s so difficult to read, Isabela! Her eyes will say one thing while her lips say something else entirely – and the two lie to each other so often, they manage to confuse me as well, so when I think I see something – _anything_ – it’s so very quick, I can only think I’ve imagined it….”

But beyond even that – beyond her frustration or the other’s complete lack of understanding:

They only ever seemed to _argue_.

The pirate leaned forward, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “She’s certainly a frigid bastard…But, you mentioned she didn’t pull away, didn’t you? Hawke may have an icicle up her ass, but she isn’t wishy washy. If she hadn’t wanted to be kissed, I can’t see why she would stay there and take it – even if she wanted to spare your feelings.”

Merrill felt a pinch in her chest – she hadn’t considered that. Hawke wasn’t like her: she didn’t make silly mistakes or hesitate when it mattered. There had been shock – yes – but…if the other woman didn’t like it…The elf felt a maddening swirl of hope and uncertainty; her fingers fiddled with the handle of her mug.

Isabela smiled, retracting her hand. “Anyway, speaking of ‘nightly visits’, Carver asked how I enjoyed our dinner.” She smirked behind her glass. “I wasn’t aware we’d eaten together.” Merrill felt herself color for the umpteenth time. “Don’t worry. I didn’t tell him that…But I won’t say I wasn’t surprised.” Her eyes danced with mirth. “I was under the impression you couldn’t manage lying to anyone…”

The other was wrong, of course: she was perfectly capable of lying to herself. “I didn’t mean to lie – oh, but he looked so disappointed that I couldn’t accept his dinner invitation! Not that that’s any excuse…” she ducked her chin, “Abelas. I’ll make it up to him – to you.”

“Oh, Kitten…” a soft look she didn’t deserve, “I don’t care about that. I just want to be sure you know what you’re getting into.” Merrill stared at her, puzzled. “Carver wants to be with you, dear. In more than a ‘friendly’ way.”

Her brows dipped. “What? How? Did he say that?” She shook her head as if to shoo the thought away – as if shaking hard enough would make Carver forget as well – before she thought on her and Hawke’s dinner again. “…She mentioned he held me in high regard – Hawke did. She said I was one of the people he’d taken a liking to.”

The pirate’s brow rose again. “Did she now…” a stray thought flicked past amber orbs before disappearing completely, “It makes sense. Ser Do Right would do anything for that brother of hers. Not that he deserves it.” A grimace. “Family.” The elf watched the other woman finish her drink.

“Do you suppose…” she chewed her lip, “Hawke was trying to say something similar?”

“In that tiresome, noble way of hers?” Isabela scoffed, sliding her empty mug to the side. “I wouldn’t doubt it...” she wiped her mouth with her forearm before fixing her with a firm stare, “Look. I understand you want to have your fun, but those two are far more trouble than they’re worth. Just…promise me you’ll consider all those pesky little details before getting involved? I don’t want you getting caught up in something that has nothing to do with you."

Merrill pressed the greasy rim of her mug to her lips, peering into an impenetrable froth before taking her own healthy gulp. Her eyes watered; she nodded compliantly. “You’re right – of course, you’re right. I wouldn’t want to be caught in the middle.” And she was Dalish, for Creator’s sake – why was she even entertaining the thought of a human lover? She already had something to focus on – a thing to devote time to – something that went beyond her…beyond _loneliness_ – everything else was a distraction.

…Right?

Right.

The elf took another sip of her drink, nodding again.


	7. Caged

* * *

_But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams_  
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream  
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied  
so he opens his throat to sing

* * *

 

Cold.

 _Hot_.

She woke violently — _gasping_.

 **Darkness**.

Her hands clenched. Her body shook.

 _Bartrand_ …

Fabric clung to sweat drenched skin.

He **_betrayed_** _them all_.

It had been abrupt — _unprecedented_ — she had _not seen it coming_. All the _preparation_ , all the _planning_ , all the _foresight_ — retaining Varric as _surety_ …and, _still_ , the dwarf left her **_floundering_**.

Lost

With only the food and water they thought to bring along.

Sigourney strained her eyes in murky darkness, catching the barely perceptible lines of her companions— 

Sleeping. 

Her shoulders fell.

Wavering, warm light in the distance, splitting shadows in two: 

Anders’ continued watch.

 _Relief_.

A nightmare.

Her hand grazed loosened bandages around her arm, raw skin burning in protest against the friction…She dreamt of _fire_ ; the dragon’s flames scorching her flesh as she allowed Varric’s retreat with a barrier of ice.

But Varric hadn’t escaped.

And she was burned alive. 

Sigourney exhaled, rising to sit on the jacket doubling as a makeshift blanket — clutching her knees to her chest to avoid contact with her surroundings. The air felt like an enemy, _hot_ and _alive_ — sticking to her lungs — **_throbbing_** with crimson veins that jutted angrily from the walls. Shadows bucked. _Shivered_ …And it—

Was…

 _Absurd_. But. She heard…music. _Saw_ things — _blinked_ — and they were _gone_.

The mage held her head—

 _Shook_ her head. 

 _Useless_.

She could no longer trust her eyes; separate caution from paranoia. Power not her own, surged beneath her skin, sung within her blood… ** _Perverse_**. Unnatural…The raw lyrium used as idolatry, decoration — carved into the very _structure_ — leaving her fevered and dizzy. 

Irrational—

With _lucid_ dreams. 

With **_terrible_** dreams…

She did not _sleep_.

The grip on her knees tightened. 

She dreamt of summer nights — the location always changing — _shifting_ — each time, some place new — spent with her father. How gentle his tone could be when they gazed at stars, vast and brilliant against an inky infinity…A fine contrast to the terse commands reserved for her training: 

Aloof. _Merciless_. 

Preparing her for a world that was cruel. 

She remembered the guilt lingering in his eyes the night he informed her Bethany would be joining them….

 ** _Bethany_** —

…

She dreamt of Carver. Of never seeing him again. Their mother…Fitful visions where she chased a fading likeness — an idea she thought she _knew_ — only to fall short each time, it slipping from her fingers. Until, her brother was swallowed whole, consumed by leather and steel bearing the emblem of a sword aflame. Always, his words were harsh — as harsh as the metal encasing him. The steel of the sword held in his hand. Pointing at her heart.

 _The Order dictates_ …

She could not see his face. Could not apologize to an impassive helmet with dark, soulless slits….

And then he would chase her.

She dreamed of Merrill.

Sigourney touched her cheek, the fingers returning soiled.

 _Immediate_ — she wanted to _wash it away_ — the need to clean _overwhelming_ , as if the stain tainted what had happened there…She freed the canteen from her belt, pouring a small deposit into her hand, using the shrinking pool to cleanse the skin there.

 _Merrill_ …

The mage closed her eyes. 

 _Her_ —

Exhaled.

 _Lips_ …

Her own parted.

 _Dar'eth shiral_ ….

She had not given herself time to think on it.

But.

A fevered mind made the **darkness** enough — enough to remember the soft weight against her skin; the tales those lips could weave out of thin air…Before she was assailed with uncertainty.

What had it meant? Had it meant anything? 

Did it _have_ to? 

The elf made her so unsure…

A marvel in itself. She did not appreciate uncertainty. 

Did not **_tolerate_** it.

Yet, Merrill — with a word — a look — plunged her into a near constant doubt.

 _Maker_ — how were they so _similar_ , when their methods could not be further _apart_?

 ** _Blood magic_**.

Aversion rose like bile in her throat.

The woman was _brilliant_ , and **foolish** ; _kind_ , and **stubborn** ; _timid_ , and **prideful**.

A contradiction beyond her: 

She could not _box her_ _in_.

But a loneliness she knew. An isolation she _knew_ …The frayed edges of her smiles; the sad ache of her eyes; the dark shift of her tone when she drew it like a knife…

And. She… _wanted_ —

But, it was not about her wants. And she was not blind.

Carver fancied her. More than any other he pursued in the past.

The cycle was familiar; _saccharine_ : cocky words, endless posturing — until his target would swoon their way to his bed. Her brother was not unattractive; it had been _easy_. 

She envied that ability. That _freedom_.

When she took a lover, it was a clinical affair. No furtive glances and heated whispers — but an agreement. An end to curiosity.

It met her need at the time.

She was a mage — she was the _eldest_ — nothing she did could be casual.

So. 

So—

Why could she not _see_ them together?

A twinge.

What was this **_selfishness_**?

…Distance. Distance would be best. For her sake. 

For Merrill’s.

Sigourney opened her eyes; the canteen had fallen, what water remained, a puddle consumed by the ground.

The mage picked it up to set between her legs, conjuring ice in one hand, and fire in the other.

She had never been more grateful for her magic: fresh water was all but nonexistent so far into the Deep Roads. Two mages in their party made certain everyone had enough to drink.

Their food supply was not so easily remedied. 

Anders knew enough about the Deep Roads to know which mushrooms to eat, which to avoid — how to properly clean and prepare the ones they could consume…But, their reserves were dwindling. Between four people, abandoned in an unknown thaig…

The canteen was returned to its place at her hip. 

Paths were labyrinth: tunnel upon tunnel, twisting and turning…Numerous dead ends. Without maps, records — logs…They could only wander. Hope.

How _long_?

Without the sun — _day_ and _night_ — time was fluid. A _suggestion_ instead of **fact**. More so, with her crippled sense of reality. 

How long before they were **_forgotten_**? 

If they could not find an escape route…Who would _search_ for them? Would anyone _bother_? Perhaps for Aveline…Varric, even — but she was hardly important. A Fereldan refugee who signed up for a suicidal trek into the Deep Roads.

For her family. For their happiness. 

There hadn’t _been_ another way.

Would it—

A trickling, wet warmth.

Would **_this_** —

…Fail?

Her mother would cry. Her uncle would shrug.

 _Carver_?

 ** _Relieved_**?

Sigourney rose. 

Collected her jacket. 

Wiped her eyes.

She turned toward the wavering light, stepping forward to relieve Anders of his duty.

 

* * *

 

Wind whistled through the gaps in the walls.

Glass littered the floor like crooked diamonds.

Merrill sighed. Turned the page.

Her bedroom wasn’t nearly as big as the living area, but she didn’t think arranging shattered pieces of an eluvian purified by blood magic, for all her guests to see, entirely appropriate. 

At least, not before offering tea.

She did, however, wonder if the effort was worth it when she never _had_ any. Burglars were a sort of guest, but she hadn't had much of those either (had she done something to upset them?), and, even when she did, they never stayed long after discovering she had little of value.

And, with Hawke gone—

Her hand slipped from the page.

…With Hawke gone, she had no reason to expect company. No pressing matters to attend on the outside. No need to even step out of her house. 

No _distractions_.

No—

It was a good thing. It was a good thing, and she needed it, and she would not take a second of it for granted.

Because this was _why she was_ ** _here_** _._

So, for the time that she had that was actually hers, she buried herself deep in ancient texts that made her vision blur and her head throb until the meager, grey light from her windows exhausted itself into darkness. Then, she would light the small array of candles lining sills, desks, and headboards, with a flick of the finger, her pinky idly scratching a clump of dried wax as she read on.

She was _close_ to something now — a way to re-construct the eluvian — make use of the opaque shards she devoted so much time and energy, to; the wood she gathered to serve as a frame… But, what she, still, couldn’t find in the tomes she scoured night and day was _how_ it would work. _If_ it would work…

 **After**.

Yes, the ‘ _how_ ’ always seemed two steps ahead, a sneaky, teasing creature with its false leads and hopeful conjecture, before it up and leapt away.

Soon. She would need to speak to the spirit. Ask for its assistance — maybe, a better way? So she could help her clan, save her people from a mire of mediocrity. And…she’d made so much _progress_ in the last few weeks. That had to mean something. 

It _did_.

…So why did it all feel like running away? Why did her dedication feel **heavy** and _tainted_? 

 **Secondary**. 

Another sigh. She re-read the last passage.

She didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t _have_ to. 

How **_worried_** —

A harsh bang against her door.

Her heart jumped.

Another.

“C-coming!” Merrill frantically rose from her chair, almost tripping on her own two feet in the process — was it Hawke? It had been so long — she had not seen her in _so long_ , and…She shut the bedroom door behind her. “I’ll be there in just a moment!”

The elf rushed down the short hallway, sprinted toward the front door…laying a hand against the rough wood.

A breath.

A breath.

Merrill tugged the old door toward her. 

She saw a flaming sword.

 ** _Mythal_** —

The door was slammed shut.

Heat pounded against her ears.   

She’d been careful — more careful, even, than with her _clan_. _Why_ …? She was just an elf — just one elf — they hadn’t noticed her — they _never_ noticed her. 

She was _insignificant_. 

But one laid _outside her door_. 

A **_templar_**.

Her chest trembled.

She’d seen elves taken from the alienage — but it was so rare. At least for templar matters. 

 _What if_ —

“Merrill!” Laughter. “Merrill — it’s me! Carver!”

She blinked.

… _Hawke’s_

 ** _Brother_**?

It had been…two — three — weeks since she saw him last? 

Merrill sighed, a hand resting on her heart…before she peeked out the door to find his grinning face, the city elves, who hadn’t hid, cowering in fear behind him.

 _Creators_ —

“You shouldn’t come here.” _Hard_ ; Carver frowned. “At least, not while wearing your new uniform.” Anger burned the fear away. “You scared me half to death.”

Why — why was her voice that way — hard and uninviting? 

Why was she so _disappointed_? 

The man rubbed his neck. “Ah. I guess…I guess I didn’t think it through.” He didn’t meet her eyes. “I…had a few celebratory drinks with the other recruits, and we thought it’d be a laugh to wear our uniforms while visiting friends…” 

She blinked again: 

A ‘ _laugh_ ’?

“So, I was the friend you chose?” She crossed her arms. “The Dalish who uses blood magic?”

Carver winced. “Look: it was a stupid thing to do. I’m sorry, all right? I just…” he rubbed his neck again, a harsh, angry motion, “It’s been a while since I was able to leave the Gallows, and I wanted to — to visit.” A sigh; his hand fell. “Let’s start over. Can I come in?”

Merrill stared at him — at the elves watching her every move…He’d been out drinking; maybe, he was taking his sister’s absence poorly, as well — harder than she was, certainly — they were _family_. 

A sudden wave of regret; she stepped away from the door. “Of course — of course you can.” She nodded, as if that weren’t enough. “Please.”

The man nodded back, a flash of gratitude passing his features, before he entered.

She watched him, the sort of…clumsy shuffling he did with the intention of grabbing a chair, before hesitating. Shifting on the balls of his feet.

“So.” He cleared his throat. “This is your house. It’s…nice. Lot of character.” 

The elf looked around: tomes, parchment; bread that begun to mold — was that a rat’s burrow in the corner? Sigh. “I have tea now. Two kinds.” She was proud of that; a little over a month in Kirkwall, and she managed to have more than water. Progress. “Would you like a cup?”

Carver raised a hand. “I’ll pass. I…” a crooked smile, “think I’ve had enough to drink.” 

But hadn’t that been alcohol? Well, she never asked what he drunk with his templar friends — the blood of virgin mages? …Maybe tea. Did templars drink tea? She highly doubted it. They’d be far more agreeable and less swordy, if they did.

He glanced at her. The floorboards. Her, once more. 

She pulled out a chair, gesturing to the one across from her. 

The man sat down heavily — as if weighed down by his armor. 

“Is the armor you wear uncomfortable?” 

Carver looked surprised, as if he hadn’t expected her to speak. “It…ah, gets a bit stuffy when the sun’s on it. But, it’s heavier than it looks.” He flexed a gauntleted arm. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“That isn’t surprising. You’re very capable.” His cheeks flushed healthily: she was so glad his cuts and bruises had all healed. “Do you live in the Gallows, now?”A nod. “Do you like it there?” Another. “I’ve always thought it so dreadful. All those awful statues frozen in agony…” she shivered, “What a terrible thing to wake to.”

He shrugged. “Better than my uncle’s dump, painted with shit and beer. I even have my own quarters.” 

“I’m sure it's lovely.” A smile. “I’d come visit, but I don’t think that’s allowed?” His expression dimmed; her smile remained. “You’re happy there?”

“I will be — only a recruit, and I’m already respected.” She could see his pride, hear it lift the creased edges of his voice. “It can be downright boring most days: I feel I’m in the Chantry more than the Grand Cleric. And the whole ‘drinking lyrium’ thing will take some getting used to…But the Order protects people from something real.” He glanced at the engraving on his chest plate, a hand grazing it lightly. “I’m part of that now.” 

Merrill felt her heart go out to the man — he’d always seemed so… _conflicted_. 

 _Unsatisfied_. 

Maybe this would finally give some peace. Enough to reconcile with his sister? They were on such poor terms before she left…But, maybe this would bring them closer. It would be difficult at first, and she knew how Hawke felt on the matter —but—

_My family is all I have. They are my happiness._

Y _ou don’t have any happiness of your own?_

Carver cleared his throat.

Green orbs flicked to his, startled. “Oh! I’m so sorry! I suppose…” a shake of her head, “Well, it doesn’t matter. Not really.” The man stared, confused; she summoned another smile. “It’s never easy finding where you belong. I’m glad you finally have.”

“A person happy for me?” He scoffed. “Never thought I’d hear it.” She frowned. “If only my mother could have taken it as well as you have…”

Merrill gasped — Creators, how could she be so _careless_? “Is she all right? It can’t be easy, having both you and your sister away. On you either, for that matter.”

His expression hardened; he stood from his chair. “She’s in bloody hysterics. My uncle told her of a damned rumor floating around — that Bartrand had been spotted passing through the Docks.” The man began to pace. “That was a week ago.”

Her pulse leapt. “Without Hawke — or Varric, or Aveline or Anders?” Carver shrugged. “That…How can that be right?” A creeping sort of **_panic_** ; she shook her head vehemently. “Your uncle must be wrong — or the person who started the rumor is. They aren’t always true — they wouldn’t be called rumors, if they were.” They would be called ‘truths’. Even she knew that. “Bartrand is Varric’s brother. There isn’t any way he would leave without him — without Hawke and the others. They were _partners_. Partners don’t—” he did not look her way; her mouth worked fruitlessly, “It isn’t true.”  

“Why not?” His steps grew agitated. “The expedition was supposed to be a week from the surface — it’s been three.” A dark look. “Something’s gone wrong.” 

“How can you say that?” **_Snapped_**. “How can you be so calm?” She wanted to hit him with her words, pound them against his chest and make them scream it wasn’t _true_. “Aren’t you worried about your sister?”

“My sister can take care of herself.” Cold. _Cutting_. “She didn’t need me for her expedition. If she wanted my concern, she should have brought me along.” He stopped. Glared at a wall. “Andraste’s ass, she isn’t even _here_ and she’s still all you can think about.”

Merrill swallowed slowly. Feeling a nervousness she never had before. 

As if one wrong step could ruin a thing she never even _knew_ … 

 _Carver wants to be with you, dear_.

A lump caught in her throat.

“…Carver—”

“You were with her that night, weren’t you?” He finally met her eyes. _Anger_ and — 

 ** _Betrayal_**.

She opened her mouth, wanting to say something — _give_ something — ‘it isn’t that!’

…No words came. 

Her eyes fell to the floor. 

Carver nodded. “Dear sister wins again.” He dragged a hand down his face…kicked one of her stools.

It clattered against the wall.

Merrill flinched.

A deafening silence.

“…I never stood a chance, did I?” He turned to her, glaring. “She’ll never be what you need.” His shoulders heaved. “They’ll always be something bigger — grander — that can only be fixed by her.”

Her fists clenched. She felt…

 ** _Felt_** —

“And you would do better?” The man blanched. “I’m not an object to be won. I’m here for my own reasons — reasons you couldn’t possibly understand.” Her eyes narrowed into slits. “Anything else is unnecessary.” 

Carver stood there. Frozen. “Merrill…”

Why was she so **_angry_**?

“Merrill — I —”

“Was there something else you needed? I’m resented enough in the alienage without inviting templars into my home; I doubt letting you stay longer than necessary will help matters.”

The human ran a heavy hand through his hair — mumbled an apology — before exiting her home.

 

* * *

 

A wooden door. 

Knotted. Splintered. Riddled with holes.

A barrier. That felt _insurmountable_ — despite each endured horror. 

Despite escaping the Deep Roads _alive_.

She was so **_tired_** ….

Her steps heavy and slow.

 _Uncertain_.

 _I imagine you’ll want to head home — tell your family the good news_?

How long?

How long since Varric gave those words, with jaded eyes; with crippled tone?

 _We’re going to be_ rich.

Desperate. A vigorous plea — all of it was _worth it_.

It **_was_**.

But gold would not give her back _three weeks_.

Gold would not fix the **_broken_** ….

How _long_?

She could not determine how long she stood in front of the entrance to her uncle’s home.

Did she _want_ to return?

What waited for her on the other side of that door?

A third time. Her hand faltered before reaching its handle.

 _Anger_.

She was so _angry_ with herself. What was this _hesitation_? This…

 _Indecisiveness_?

This was her **_family_**.

She— 

She would…

 _Endure_.

Sigourney opened the door. 

…Empty.

There was no one.

Her shoulders fell.

A slow breath.

Nothing had changed in her absence. Everything was the _same_ : 

The grime covering the floorboards; the soot conquering the fireplace; the disorganized stacks of correspondence filling her uncle's desk. 

She sifted through them, many more addressed to 'Hawke' than 'Gamlen'. Opportunities. Odd jobs she no longer had to work to provide for her family. 

A moment. 

A smile.

She could _provide_ for her family.

They would have their estate — she would buy it. Then, she could be the Amell lady her mother always envisioned. And, Carver — Carver would have a title. Make a name for himself with far more ease given their recovered status.

And surely — _surely_ — things would be _better_.

Surely—

"So, you're back." A sharp scoff; the letters fell from her hand. “Here I thought you were some burglar in need of a lesson.”

Sigourney turned. Hearing her brother’s voice, yet seeing

A templar.

She fell against the table.

“Carver…”

“You’ve seen yourself, right?” Another sharp sound. “I barely recognized you under all the dirt.” She consciously touched a cheek. He tightened a leather cord. “Anyway. I was just getting the last of my things.”

“…Things?” An echo. Her eyes fell on the pack slung over his shoulder.

“I've joined the Order.” She shut her eyes… _This_ — “Don’t waste your breath trying to talk me out of it. I’ve already been accepted — it's done.”

Her lungs felt too small. She… All the warnings — all the _signs_ …And she was _still_ left _gasping_.

 _Why_? Why could she not see the things _right in_ _front of her_?

Her brother smiled at her inability — a terrible twist of the lips. “How did you think this would turn out, Sister? You’d come back, the hero, while I stood beside Mother, waiting for your glorious return?” His expression darkened significantly. “ _You_ left _me_ behind. I’m _tired_ of waiting.”

Her brows dipped — ‘ _glorious_ ’? “Bartrand left us for dead, Carver. Without supplies — without _food_ — we didn’t even know if there was a way out. We did _not know_.” Shaky hands supported her weight. “You’re _alive_. I will _not_ regret my decision.” 

“It shouldn’t have _been_ your decision! This is _my_ life — these are _my_ choices! You don’t get to take that away!” **_Rage_** — vicious swells mounting with each word. “I want to be _someone_. Like Father wanted. Like _I_ want. This is _my_ chance.”

It hit her squarely in the chest. It hit her in _waves_ :

 ** _Guilt_**.

 _But_ —

She wanted the _same_! Why could he not _see_ that? Why could she not _show_ it? 

Everything _was for_ _him_.

She did not _want_ this. Did not _ask_ for it — eldest; benefactor; provider. 

But she was. 

It _was_.

“…Sigourney?” Her eyes widened — she hadn’t heard the door, did not see their mother enter with her mabari in tow; a trembling hand met the elder woman’s mouth. “Oh, my _baby_ …” Leandra rushed to cup her face — _squeezed_ and _pinched_ — as if determining she were real, “ _Thank the_ _Maker_. I thought I’d lost you too.”

Oliver barked happily.

Carver stepped back.

“I was just leaving.”

Leandra’s grip slackened, her hands falling away as she turned to him. “Carver, please. The Order is so dangerous!” Lines of worry etched her brow. “Your sister’s back now — it’ll be like it was: the three of us, together.” She held both his arms — _pleading_. “I’ve already met with the viscount. Come with us to the estate.”

“Her estate, you mean?” Their mother frowned. “I don’t belong in that life. I _need_ to do this.” He stepped away, escaping her grasp — looking to her. “You don't need to worry about me turning you in. I know the value of family.”

Sigourney felt her mouth open — felt the words _burn_ with their need to be _said_ — but she was already looking at his back. 

And he was already out the door. 

She watched her mother’s shoulders hunch — _quake_ , with tears brimming in her eyes. “Where _were_ you?” _Accusation_. She staggered back, feeling it like a physical blow. “How could you leave us like that? How could you let him join the _templars_? You could have _stopped_ him!” 

She—

A choked sob.

She _couldn’t_ —

“You should have been here!”

 _Take_ —

“I’m only glad your father wasn’t alive to see this—”

 ** _This_** …

“Or my poor Bethany…”

Something _snapped_.

Her mother screamed.

Sigourney ran.

 

* * *

 

The gate to the alienage was closed.

Her hands wrapped the bundle of chains, fingers finding the large padlock forbidding exit or entry.

She…

Was too late.

Irrationality struck like _lightening_ — a violent, brilliant flash engulfing her in **_selfishness_**. 

She wanted to _yell_ the elf’s name. As if _her_ voice would summon her despite all odds.

 _Foolish_.

Her body slumped against metal bars. 

What need was there for such dramatics?

She had no set destination. Nothing beyond…

' ** _Away_** '. 

And, everything had been so _insignificant_. Everything had been a _blur_.

…So, _why_? 

Why had her feet led her _here_?

She shouldn't have come — what a _nuisance_ she was. _When_ had she become this weak? _Where_ was her self-control? 

Would she flee to this place _every_ time there was an issue she could not deal with?

 _I wish you would intrude more_.

Her mouth went dry.

She…she was **_exhausted_**.

 _Sleep_. 

She could not go home. 

She needed…

She needed to—

“…Hawke?”

Sigourney immediately turned, seeing Merrill on the stairs leading to the alienage. 

A ball of twine fell from her hands.

“Merrill…” the mage followed the unraveling bundle…before grabbing hold of a bar — reclaiming her height. “You’re…Why—”

She was allowed nothing more.

The elf slammed into her, thin, willowy arms wrapping her body in a fierce embrace. “Oh, thank the _Creators_ …” _whispered_ _against her skin_ , “you’re _safe_ …”

The words shot through her like a current — _electric_ — after only cold, harsh things:

 _Sensation_ …

Her fingers curled at her sides. 

She had barely known the other for a month, yet, here — _here_ — she received her warmest welcome.

So _warm_ …

“Merrill…” _croaked_ ; the name finally leaving her lips. 

The elf broke away. “I’m—!” A blush, evident even in the relative darkness. “I didn’t mean—” she bit her lip, “it’s just that you were gone for so long — longer than anyone thought to think — and there was _no news_. No one knew where you were or where the others were, even after the rumors began of Bartrand’s return. And, I was _so_ …” green orbs stared up at her, brimming with tears and frustration at the words that did not come, “I thought you had forgotten your promise….” 

Sigourney paused. Smiled. “No.” Her thumb grazed a tattooed cheek. “I’ve returned. For your sake.”

Merrill ducked her chin, moonlight catching on a quivering lower lip. “…Ma serannas.” She exhaled; green orbs appraised her again. “You’re filthy…” her brows dipped…before a hand flew to her mouth in apology. “Hawke…” scarred fingers found the tears in her jacket. “What happened to you?”

She looked down at herself, painfully aware of her own appearance — **_dirt_** and **_disorganization_** … She had not stayed at her uncle’s home long enough to clean. Was given no opportunity.

She was not **_wanted_**.

Her eyes fell to the ground.

 _How_ —?

The other’s hand paused. “Isabela brought me along for ‘body shots’. Varric had finally come and she wanted to celebrate…But, I suppose I lost track of time — I often do with her — and she offered to take me home, but Varric looked so terribly down: I thought she should stay near because she’s so bright. That, and I wanted to use the twine I always forget I have. But that only ended up taking more time, and I wound up lost, anyway…” her brows furrowed; a sudden realization. “Why aren’t you with your family?” 

Sigourney looked to her — startled — mouth parting…only to close again.

Her jaw set.

“I’ll…be staying at the Hanged Man. For a time. Until—” _until_? “Things…settle.”

Merrill frowned. “You can’t go home?”

Her throat was uncooperative. She felt _paralyzed_ — _pierced_ cleanly through.

 ** _Unsafe_**.

The elf claimed her hand; led her from the gate. 

“…Merrill?”

Silence.

“Merrill.”

There was no backward glance. “You’ll stay with me. Until there isn’t any need to.”

The mage stopped. “Merrill…”

“We’ll need a place to stay for the night, though.” The tug of her hand never faltered, the other’s deceptive strength surprising her, once more. “The alienage gate won’t open before morning.”

She turned at her whim, passing buildings; climbing stairs…Until, there was a thought she hadn’t considered. Had not _wanted_ to consider:

What if it wasn’t Merrill’s strength—

But her own _weakness_?

Her eyes narrowed at the ground. “So stubborn.” 

The elf smiled. “Only enough to outlast you.”

She did not know how to respond, so she welcomed back Silence; the woman rendered her speechless with an ease, unnerving.

Merrill led them to the Hanged Man, moving past rowdy patrons and vacated chairs with a promptness she’d never _seen_ — until they were tucked into a windowless room, the muffled sounds of the tavern behind them.

“Isabela mentioned guests at the Hanged Man often don’t pay until morning.” The elf released her hand, pink tinting her cheeks. “Not that I ever thought I’d need to know that sort of thing…”

Sigourney nodded: she had no doubt the other said so to placate her since she had not been allowed to speak to Corff or provide payment. She surveyed the space: a dank room with a thin mattress shoved in a corner, a single desk offering a bucket and a few scattered chairs.

She lit each candle passed, before collapsing into the seat of the nearest one.

Merrill seemed to fret. “Have you eaten?” She shook her head. “There’s a special stew served here where the meat’s always a surprise.”

The mage looked to her with heavy eyes, the stability she once wielded, _gone_ — as if sapped by the very room. “I don’t have much of an appetite…I should—” her voice felt foreign and far; she was… _disoriented_ , “rest. I need to rest.” 

A sad smile. “You shouldn’t bring dirt to bed. You’ll wake and still be dirty.” Her hands shifted to her neck, unraveling the green scarf there. “There’s a public bath in the back. It isn’t fancy, but it’ll get you clean.” 

Sigourney merely nodded, having neither the strength or will to argue; Merrill helped her to her feet, providing a shoulder to lean on as they made their way down the hall. 

The bathing area was sparse, a tattered sheet for privacy and a wooden basin set beside a rusted pump, all that was afforded.

She did not know why the scene hit her so **_savagely_** — bringing with it a **despair** that left her _breathless_ —

 ** _Shaking_**.  

“…Hawke.” _Soft_ , and _pitying_ and—

 ** _Tragic_**.

 _Maker_ …

Merrill gently placed her against the wall, peeling off clothes caked with dirt — lifting the appropriate limbs — until she stood trembling and bare. 

Her hands remained at her sides.

On any other night, in any other circumstance, this would have been compromising…

 ** _Dangerous_**.

But, _this_ wasn’t _that_. And the Deep Roads had happened. And she felt so

 _Empty_.

Sigourney heard water splash beside her, hitting the wood with a harsh, numbing sound — before she was pulled from the sure wall, helped into the basin.

The water was warm.

Merrill dipped her scarf into the tub, wringing it once, before using it to clean her hair.

“Your scarf…” _out_ — before she could stop it; her mouth worked uselessly, unable to say—

‘ _Please_ —’ 

‘ _Don’t_.’

‘It’ll be _ruined_.’

The elf met her eyes, green requiring nothing. “That doesn’t matter now.”

 _Plunged_ ; back into silence.

The cloth ran the length of her body — _meticulous_ and _tender_ …Until she was cleaner than the water.

Every trace of dirt gone.

So, how — _why_ — did she still feel  _ **dirty**_?

Merrill helped her stand, handing her her clothes, but keeping her jacket, washing it as well. 

Just as meticulously.

Just as tenderly.

Sigourney watched in silence.

They returned to the small room, when she was done, the elf laying her jacket over the back of a chair to dry.

“Take the mattress.” Her voice was too soft; she pointed to the appropriate corner.

Merrill shook her head, as if she asked for an impossibility. “I couldn’t! Not after what you’ve been through…”

She felt the poor attempt of a smile. “I’ve slept on the ground for weeks, Merrill. A wooden floor will be a luxury.”

“Well, if we’re going to use that sort of logic, I’m Dalish—” she crossed her arms, “I’ve slept on grounds all my life.”

Sigourney sighed, running a hand through damp hair. “Merrill…”

“It’s large enough for the two of us. We can both sleep there.” She tried to protest; the elf’s brows dipped sharply. “I won’t sleep on that mattress if you’re not beside me.”

She felt her shoulders sag: twice, in one evening, she was defeated by this woman.

Sigourney faced the mattress, a soft grunt escaping as she lowered herself down, shifting along the paltry bed until her right side was flush against the wall.

She followed Merrill with her eyes, watching the elf fold her scarf, set it beside her jacket; remove the leather belt around her hips — add it, as well. She turned to the uneven desk behind her, leaning down to blow out the thick, red candles.

The wicks re-ignited.

Merrill gasped. Looked to her, sadly. 

She stared at a wall.

The soft brush of clothes — the _warmth_ of a body— their arms grazing as the mattress creaked while the other settled in…Sigourney lied on her back, unable to face the other woman — focusing on a crack in the ceiling instead.

Silence.

Moments turned to minutes. 

She _did not_ close her eyes.

…A soft breath. 

Another.

Merrill’s hand rested on her own.

“Long ago, before the Sun met the Sky, there lived a beautiful bird, locked away in a cage…”

Sigourney exhaled, letting the elf’s voice lull her from the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R.I.P Dr. Maya Angelou. An incredible gift; an immeasurable loss.


	8. Shift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a difficult chapter for me. Just letting Hawke and Merrill speak after the Deep Roads… I kept asking myself, ‘What do they want to say?’. Beyond scripts. Beyond conventions.
> 
> ‘What is _real_?’
> 
> I don’t know if I succeeded. I think I didn’t do badly.
> 
> Que sera.

* * *

 

Empty.

Merrill woke with a start, flipping from the barren space on the lumpy mattress to take in the remaining contents of the room.

A desk. 

A chair.

A chair.

Her scarf.

A jacket.

 _…Hawke_.

Her eyes found the displaced figure — would not let her _go_ — the other’s hands active in the act of dressing, sharp, raven locks peeking through the opening of a shirt as she filled its lengthy sleeves. Rolled them up her wrist.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here.” The rustling stopped. Merrill frowned, watching the fabric creep like an accomplice, hiding the nicks and bruises stretching across fleeting swaths of skin. She eyed a tautened back. “When I woke.”

Hawke’s motions resumed, the blades of her shoulders dropping, long, efficient fingers tugging the shirt down fully — tucking its hem into dusty, leather pants. “There isn’t anywhere for me to go.”

The elf felt a crease mark her brow. She did not like her voice. She did not like the tone of her voice. “Did you sleep?” 

The woman turned to her with a smile — the saddest thing she’d ever _seen_ — before looking away.

“I’ve paid Corff for the night. You were right: he did not seem to mind payment in the morning.” Hawke approached the chair in front of the desk, a hand falling to her dark jacket, only to retreat just as swiftly. Merrill wondered if it sagged, damp, still. “I left to purchase clothing and thought to buy food as well. Neither of us ate last night.” She gestured to a tray filled with flaky pastries and small assortments of preserves, twin knives waiting, patiently, with napkins, beside them. “Are you hungry?”

The elf stared — _gawked_ — speechless…. Creators. This… 

 _felt_ wrong. The other’s actions _felt all_ **_wrong_** :

Eat _this_.

 _Stomach_ this.

‘This is what one _must_ do—’ 

‘Yes, _this_ is how we’ll be **normal**.’

But, how _could_ they? _Be_ ‘normal’? How could it even be an _option_? When last night had been scars and fragility and— 

 ** _Brokenness_**. 

She hadn’t given the woman a _choice_.

But the Hawke that stood before her now…

She did not know how to handle that person — didn’t know the words or phrases. How to _twist_ the pieces — _wrench_ them together and make them _fit_ … into some vague recollection of who she once knew.

A fist shook at her side. 

She did not know how to collect a thing already spilled to the floor.

“Merrill?” Probing.

The elf blinked. Blinked. “Y-Yes!” Blurted — oh, she must have looked a fool! “We should—” her eyes darted to the tray of normal, “we should both eat.”

Hawke scanned her with foggy eyes: dim and lightless and _wrong_ …before tilting her head in easy accord. Fetching a chair for her to sit in.

Merrill took it silently. Reached for a biscuit with one hand. A knife with the other.

Hawke removed a dark preserve.

An empty silence.

The elf examined her — surreptitious glances in-between nibbles and sweeps of her knife — the gauntness of her cheeks; how her clothes hung with fierce desperation, hoping to find a curve to cling to….

And, 

 _Mythal_.

The other’s body when she’d stripped her of her clothes. Washed her…. The woman no more than ribs, and fresh welts, and sunken skin—

Creators, she’d been so _skinny_ …

Small.

But, more than that — _worse_ than _that_ — were the new **shadows** dwelling in her eyes. There were always shadows, they had always _been_ , dark and haunting — but now there were _more_.

Why were there _more_?

Hawke gasped. It barely a breath; it barely a _sound_.

The woman still only held the small, glass jar.

Merrill frowned — turned to her fully. Peered into murky grey. 

Unfocused. 

 _Lost_ …

She was not here. “…Where are you?”

Chapped lips moved soundlessly — thoughtlessly — as if in a trance…fingers grazing an arm, her chest, in a way that looked altogether lonely. **Dubious**. As if she shouldn’t be _alive_. “Darkness…” a word slipped through. Hawke’s eyes shut tightly; a daunting pause…. Merrill reached forward, only to halt midway. Pull back. “Forgive me.” The other shook her head; opened her eyes, the fog cleared — if only slightly. “My mind was…” a beat; a smile, “elsewhere.”

“Where?” The human shook her head again. “Hawke…” 

The woman replaced the preserve — stood from her chair, a hand resting, once more, on top of her jacket; she thumbed one of its tears. “I cleaned your scarf.” Her free hand secured the strip of fabric. “Before the stains could set.”

In the middle of the night? Had she been sleeping? Another frown. “I wish you hadn’t. It usually just hangs there, from my neck, not doing much of anything, so I’m sure it enjoyed the opportunity to be useful.” Her nose wrinkled. “Even if it hadn’t, I told you, then, it didn’t matter. Not as long as it helped you.” Her gaze was avoided; she took the fabric between them. “It’s a handsome jacket.” Shift. The thumb paused. “Is it still damp?” Hawke looked up at her. “Will you have it mended?”

A dreadful lapse. The other’s eyes shifting to the dark, violent tear, as if it held the answers. “It was my father’s.”

Merrill waited. For something more? That wasn’t a very clear answer, was it? But maybe it was — _more_. More than enough to the one who gave it. “Then you should have it mended. Memories should be preserved — especially the good ones. Not that bad ones don’t have their own, particular importance…” she quickly clasped her lips together — ran a hand across the soft, green scarf, instead. There were times, when she closed her eyes, that she still thought she could catch Mahariel’s scent. “It’s wonderful how things can keep memories. Lock them up and tuck them away… Like an old, forgotten magic….”

Silence: 

Creators. She’d wanted to stop babbling, and only ended up babbling _more_. 

Hawke’s gaze remained on the tear.

A bit of canvas. A dab of adhesive. A few smart dyes — and the jacket would be good as new. There would be no trace of it ever having been torn apart.

So, why? Why weren’t people as easily mended?

Why weren’t they as tidily patched as a doll?

The elf wondered if the other ever played with them. ‘Did you play with dolls?’ She would ask, only to receive a questioning glance. ‘Dolls.’ She’d say again. ‘Little stuffed things with bits of hair and small clothing.’

And Hawke would stare at her. Like the simple thing the woman no doubt thought she was.

But, she wasn’t _like_ her. Did not see riddles or secrets, but crudely massed dolls. And they were all broken. Scarred fingers and shattered hearts. Hasty, ugly stitches, splitting at the seams….

Everyone had done their best to put themselves back together.

She’d done her best to mend her own broken places.

“Merrill.” _Again_. Her name a recurring note in a discordant flow. “Are you all right?”

The elf smiled — because it was so out of order. All of it was out of order. “You haven’t eaten.” Hawke looked perplexed. “Will you eat?”

The woman eyed the assortment, as if surprised to see it there. “Of course.” Hawke took the remaining knife; halved a roll; spread the thick preserve she held earlier across its interior. 

A single bite. The woman winced.

Merrill narrowed her eyes. “Is it a bad roll?”

“No.” It was the other’s turn to smile. “The taste was simply startling. It’s quite rich.” She set the half eaten roll back on the tray. Dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “It will take a bit of getting used to.”

“After the Deep Roads?”  

Hawke cleaned her lips, again, a tremor taking her fingers. “Yes.” A step from the desk; a step towards her chair — before she suddenly thought better of it. Continued to stand. “It’s been some time. Since we last did this. Shared a meal…But, that always seems to be, with us.” A nervous laugh. The napkin was crushed in her hand. “Have you been well, Merrill?”

“No.” Merrill stood. Glared. At her. At the situation. “No, that isn’t important.” The other’s eyes were cautious and wide. “I’m not the one who came back from an expedition weeks behind schedule. I’m not the one who’s been betrayed.” She moved to stand in front of her — and even with the difference in their heights, she feels _taller_. “Why are you only just returning?” A step forward. “Why aren’t you with your family?” Another. “Why are you _here_?”

Silence.

She watched the woman carefully — watched her hands. How they _clenched_. Loosened. Clenched again. There a **_wildness_** to her eyes that she’d only seen in trapped animals: 

A barely perceptible _tension_. A thinly veiled _frenzy_.

“Hawke…” grey orbs roamed the room wildly, flitting about like frightened birds. Searching for _escape_. As if she could not handle even the _chance_ of their eyes meeting.

As if she wouldn’t know what to **_do_** with it.

“Oh, Hawke,” the elf stayed where she was. Eyes heavy; heart full, “aren’t you _tired_?” Dead orbs widened. _Shook_. The other took an unsteady step backward. Merrill remained still. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. There aren’t any expectations.” Would she get further this time? Would they both be brave? She held murky grey. “Talk.” Finally. A step forward. “ _Talk_ , Hawke.”

And, it was the same war — the same **_struggle_** the other always seemed to face when given this opportunity. But there was something different. Something _new_. Swirling — churning — within the dark tempest of bared emotion: 

 ** _Frustration_**.

“I feel—” the woman faltered, as if surprised by her own audacity — as if those words should never _be_ ; her eyes stayed to the floor, “as if I missed something. When I was away.” Her lip trembled, at once, anxious and disgusted. Merrill watched white teeth tear into the tender flesh, as if in reparation for a sin she could not see. “It was crucial. _Vital_ — and I missed it.” _Harder_. “And now, I’ve returned. But. Everything’s…shifted. Without me. I’m… insignificant.” The elf felt a pang in her chest. She’d never seen the other look so _lost_. “I…don’t.” _Strangled_. Hawke finally looked up, met her eyes in a way that asked ‘Do you understand?’. “I. Don’t know how to be in this broken world….”

A jolt.

Had her eyes played a trick on her? The moment Hawke loosed those terrible words, her entire body seemed to _lurch_.

A flash of panic.

“You should sit.” Automatic. Merrill turned to fetch her chair. Held the other’s hand until she was unquestionably settled. Secure.

It felt—

 _Safer_.

Anything else felt safer at the moment.

She grabbed a chair for herself: it wouldn’t do to have the other sitting while she remained standing.

The elf sat, stared at the woman across from her — watched as she crawled _into_ herself — shoulders shaking with her knees; sad, pale orbs glued to the floorboards; a bottom lip bruised and shivering. Tense fingers fiddled with long, dark bangs, the wild strands completely covering one of her eyes.

Merrill frowned. Smoothed her vestments. Straightened in her chair. “Hawke.” She almost winced, seeing the other jerk as she did. “What… happened? Down there.” Careful. “To you. To everyone. I—” she bit her lip, “What happened?”

“Bartrand left us to die.” Cold. Hawke was terribly still.

Her mouth fell. What did one _say_ to _that_? “W-Why—?” The words tripped and fumbled on her tongue. “Why would he do that?”

Silence.

Merrill felt the familiar tug; the downward pull of her brow. “Hawke—”

“You kissed me.”

“W-What?” Startled — but it wasn’t enough to keep the heat from her cheeks. 

 _She_ —

“Before the expedition. The night before.” Piercing grey eyes. The eyes she _knew_. More _heat_. “I don’t know why. I would like to know why.”

 _Why_? Merrill’s eyes widened; her heart skipped two beats. “It was custom — Dalish custom.” She’d said that, hadn’t she? That it was a type of farewell? Of course, she hadn’t mentioned the kissing part for lovers — but it was on the _cheek_. Did that matter? _Elgar’nan_ … “I… wanted you to be safe. To give something,” _more_. “I didn’t—” she stammered helplessly, “it doesn’t—”

Nonsensical, _incomprehensible_ things.

The elf looked away.

“Merrill.” Methodical. “Did it mean something?” 

 _Yes_. 

She bit her lip again. That was too quick. How could the answer to _that_ be so _quick_? _What_ had it meant? What did she want from her? Was it merely physical? She knew how that felt. This felt deeper…

 _Inexplicable_. 

But— 

What could Hawke _give_? A human. A shemlen. An adversary. A diplomat and a pariah. What _could_ they be? Why would the other even be _interested_?

They were so far apart.

‘ _If she hadn’t wanted to be kissed_ …’

“…You didn’t pull away.” Merrill looked up.

“No.” Hawke met her eyes.

 _Shock_. An expression she couldn’t unlock.

Silence.

They looked to opposite corners of the room.   

“We’re…we’re losing the subject.” Her voice shook only a little. That was…They would deal with that later. “Carver’s a templar.”

She witnessed the visible reaction to her words — and she felt so very **_terrible_** … but there was _indignation_ too — because Hawke shouldn’t be the only one—could not be the only one—to say things that cut deep. “Yes.”

“Are you…all right?” The elf doubted anyone else would bring up the subject, not without harsh words and sharp tones. “With that? With him?”

The other’s expression was unreadable. “Are you, Merrill?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation. Not for this. “He’s found a way to be happy. Found a path to walk and a place to belong.” Her eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Merrill watched her — this entire conversation felt like _watching_ — the set of her jaw as she swallowed back regret and something deeper she’d never touch. “I am his sister…I will always be his sister. But, I am also a mage. I will always…” teeth, again digging into a full lip; Hawke swallowed roughly. “Suddenly…I am not allowed to be either. He is a templar recruit. He will not speak to me.” Twin brows weighted with pain. “When did it become a choice? His sister; a mage — when did they stop being one and the same?”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Merrill leaned forward in her chair. Tried to ease the space between them. “Templar or mage, you and your brother are bound by blood. Nothing can break that. Not even the two of you.” She did not understand this _fragility_ , the **_arrogance_** of shemlen preconception — how they could even _think_ something like that could be tossed away; Hawke’s fingers scratched at the leg of her pants, idle, agitated movements as her countenance darkened. “This isn’t what you wanted to return to…” _soft_ ; there indignation, yes — but, more than anything, she wanted Hawke to _smile_. If she did…Merrill was sure she’d almost forget the unfathomable sadness right beneath her eyes. “With time, both of you will understand why the other chose what they did.”

The other stiffened. Stared at the ground. “…Was it wrong to protect him?” Low. It wasn’t _for_ her. Hawke’s hand bawled into a tight fist. “Would letting him suffer everything — _I_ …” the sound of her voice breaking… _Mythal_ …

Nails dug into the flesh of her palm, leaving startling white crescents in their wake—

Merrill looked away.

If only _good intentions_ were all that was **_needed_** ….

The elf swallowed — past the lump in her throat. Past the _reluctance_. “You made a decision.” She willed her eyes upward. Steady and strong. “It doesn’t matter if it’s the right one: you have to live with it."

Silence.

The barest hint of a nod. The remnants of an acknowledgement. Was it her imagination? 

Another trick?

Hawke would not look at her. 

And, it was frightening. Terribly so, how much she wanted her eyes. “Why aren’t you staying at your uncle’s?”

An abandoned topic she picked up.

“I…” _vulnerability_ , “couldn’t.” Hawke bowed her head; the concession of a person who ran away. Merrill wanted to lift it with her own fingers. “I… can’t.”

“‘Can’t’?”

Her features knotted. “I had nothing more to give, Merrill.”

Oh. 

Oh…

The elf shifted her weight in the hard chair. Gathered her resolve. “Were you blamed?” 

Hawke did not answer. Eyes unfocused like before: seeing — unseeing. A scene she could not.

“Hawke…” silence. “Hawke.” Those eyes began to clear. “There are sacrifices — there will always _be_ sacrifices — but, you have your fortune. Despite every terrible thing you had to endure, you _succeeded_.” And, that was _important_ — that _distinction_. Because she did not know if she would accomplish her own task _half_ as well. Did not know if she would survive it at all. “Now,” _now_? “you pick up the pieces. No matter how they make your fingers bleed.”

The other’s expression said the cost was too high. “Coin cannot fix a broken home.”

“But it can certainly buy a new one.” Dark brows fell harshly. “Hawke.” Hard. Inscrutable. “ _Make_ it worth it.”

The woman glanced up at her — _stared_ at her — a new ‘unfamiliar’ swimming in murky eyes: 

Awareness? 

Realization? 

It made her shiver all the same. 

“Merrill…” Hawke’s lips parted. Shut. Whatever else there was died on that breath. “Last night. I…” another breath found wanting, “Thank you. For staying.” Her tone began to disconnect. The way it always did before she locked herself away. “It will be best if I stay here—”

“I don’t want you alone.” Hawke looked to her sharply; her own eyes widened — _Creators_ , had she actually **said** it? A rushing heat. “N-No one should be alone,” a hasty amendment, “not…not after what you’ve been through.” She had offered her home — but now logic swore at her: where would Hawke _stay_? In her room with the eluvian? Would she lock the door when she did blood magic?

Tell her to _look away_?

A dark shift. She spotted movement out of the corner of her eye, watched with halted breaths and nervous hands, Hawke stand and draw near…And even _half-starved_ and **_broken_** , the woman left her _helpless_ ….

“Merrill.” _Focused_. Their legs were barely apart. Hawke reached for an arm of her chair. Cut her off. “What do you want from me?”

Confusion. _Fear_. “You,” she swallowed, “you’ve already asked this.”

“Answer it again.”

Her brows dipped — conversations with the other woman felt precarious, at best. Now, she was the one cornered. “Why must there be anything, at all?” _Unsettled_ ; she fell back on anger. “Why do you keep asking?”

“Because I need to know what we are.” A pointed gaze. “Friends?”

Merrill shivered. “Yes…”

Their knees touched. “More?”

She saw only grey. Vivid. _Startling_ … Her head tilted forward…before quickly ducking away.

Hawke caught her chin. Led her back to those eyes. “I want to know you. I want the opportunity.” The elf held her breath — because she thought the other had forgotten those words — had no reason _not_ to, with the Deep Roads and her family…The hand fell. “But we both have our separate goals: priorities that come before anything else. Anyone else.” Merrill frowned; Hawke stepped back. Stood tall before her. “I don’t wish to complicate things. We already…” dark brows crumpled; “We should not complicate things.” Repeated. The woman paused, looked to a wall…before meeting her eyes again. “I have not had many friends. The ones I did manage, I could never be honest with. Not as a mage. But.” A beat. “I…would like that with you. The opportunity.” A conscious shift. “Can that…be enough?” 

The elf blinked. Stared — was this _not_ the same thing she told Carver? That she was in Kirkwall for her own reasons? 

That anything else was ‘ _unnecessary_ ’?

And Hawke _understood_ that — of course she did. Her duties — her _people_ — would always come first.

So— 

 _Why_ —?

The elf bit her lip.

This.

This…

was a good thing. 

It. Was.

‘Friends’ was good. ’Friends’ was safe. 

‘Friends’…

A nod before she could think on it any longer. “Of course — of course it is.” Isabela was right. The Hawkes were too messy. What good would it do getting mired in shemlen affairs? “I should go — oh! Unless…” _you want me to stay_. ‘Friends’. “I should go. You’ll be all right?”

“Yes.” Hawke smiled. The small, nervous thing that made her chest ache.

“I’ll—I’ll visit!” Blurted. The words leaping off her tongue. “Tomorrow — in the morning. To check on you — see how you are.” Creators. “Is that… Can I do that?”

Another pause…before she nodded. “Thank you, Merrill.” 

The elf smiled. Rose from her chair. Re-tied the scarf around her neck. Smiled again.

Silence.

Hawke stepped back. Crossed her arms in a way that looked like she was holding herself together.

Mythal. _Mythal_ — she wanted to _hug_ her, squeeze the image barely there to make absolutely sure it wouldn’t disappear. 

To say ‘I’m so glad you’re all right’…even when it was clear she wasn’t.

She _wasn’t_. 

“I’m going to stay.” The words escaped again, slippery and reckless. She sat back down. “I want to stay.” 

“Merrill…” _startled_.

“It isn’t because I want anything — I don’t want to wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow could be too late.” _Weeks_ she waited…She would wait no longer. “And…we’re friends.” Her brows knitted with determination. “That’s enough, isn’t it?” 

Hawke stared. Gaped…. Hesitated. Before the corners of her lips crinkled upward — finally reached her eyes. 

She turned to sit.  

A chair.

A chair. 

 _Hawke_. 

Merrill smiled.


	9. Adapt

* * *

 

“The Viscount’s seal.” Aveline smiled, wide and genuine, looking up from a neat pile of parchments lying on her desk. “It’s official, huh? The estate you staked life and limb for—it’s yours.” She crossed her arms; leaned into her chair; _laughed_. “Maker…Captain of the Guard and Scion of the Amells.” She held a cheek flushed from drink; laughed again. “Not what we imagined as a pair of refugees, scrambling to find entrance to the city, is it?”

Sigourney glanced to empty spaces—a weighty, solemn _moment_ —and ‘At what **_cost_**?’ …before returning the other’s smile. “I doubt any, one Fereldan could expect as much.”

“Let alone two. That there isn’t a mob, with torches, kicking down the door…” she eyed the entrance, as if her words were a premonition—shook her head, “Not sure I like being the latest recipient of so many eyes—and _knives_ …But, I suppose it comes with the territory.”

“Would it be so terrible to give Kirkwall an image of ‘Fereldan’, beyond destitution and squalor?”

Aveline re-crossed her arms. “So, it’s about appearances?”

“Yes. For Fereldans, it always will be.” That was what it was to face discrimination: one inherited prejudices, unearned; she leaned forward. “We’ve both been elevated beyond our means: there is no purpose, if we don’t participate in making things better — there is so much good to be done…” a thing that could be _altered_ —a thing she could solve; _unlike_ …. “I believe the two of us can make a difference, Aveline.”

The other nodded. “Noble. But, I’ve seen, firsthand, what people do with good intentions — and what happens when they’re mixed with power.” Aveline stood from her chair, moving from around her desk to stand before her. She raised a brow. “But, that isn’t why we’re here.” The guard arrested her hand with rarely exposed fingers, pulling her to her feet to wrap her in a hug. “Safe from the templars; a place for you and Leandra to call your own…” a tighter _squeeze_ , “Congratulations, Hawke. You _deserve_ it.”

Sigourney opened her mouth—inhaled sharply…. Shocking. _Paralyzing_. Not the words —  the words were Aveline — but the display. The…

_Affection_.

Oh…

And hadn’t she been there from the very _beginning_?

“…Thank you, Aveline.” A precarious whisper.

The woman nodded…released her with a smile.

A beat. She looked to the shivering flames illuminating the other’s desk. “I need to apologize.” A copper brow rose. “Our last few conversations were…unpleasant. I treated you unfairly.”

Aveline raised a hand. “And I stuck my nose where it didn’t belong.” She scoffed. “My charm, right?”

“You were only doing your job.”

“And you were protecting your family.”

Sigourney smiled. Looked to the floor. “I wished to, yes… But never at your expense. Never at the expense of our friendship.” The other was silent; she set her gaze on indeterminate green orbs. “I consider you, as I would, an older sister—though I am sure I’m poor at showing it. I am…not easy to get on with. I hold no illusions to the contrary.” A stray thought: of Bethany—how _good she’d been_ at handling her, how it often felt _effortless_ …Even when it seemed she only pushed her away. A pallid smile. “I am unused to being looked after. All these years…” the rest would not come; she swallowed past it, “But, you are among the few, I know to be constant. And you have risked your life and career to protect me.” She watched those eyes soften, even as the other’s expression remained unchanged. “I behaved poorly…because I could not come to terms with that risk.” Her hand tightened at her side. “I cannot lose you, Aveline.”

“Hawke…” 

She shook her head. “You did not have to come with me to the Deep Roads. You did not have to help me accumulate coin or influence—you did not have do this.” A gesture to her desk, the wine bottle and half emptied glasses. “The city _needs_ its captain. But. I am grateful.” She took the other’s hand. Squeezed. “ _Always_.”

Aveline closed her eyes, pushed out a breath that trembled. “Maker, Hawke—there’s no halves with you…” her eyes opened, her free hand wiping its corner; she chuckled softly. “Well. We’re a sad sight with a few drinks in us.”

Sigourney released her hand. “A poor choice in alcohol, perhaps?”

“Shut it, you.” A smile; the guard made her way back to her desk, settling in her chair, once more. “So: when can you move in?” 

“This very moment, if I wished it. Before coming here, I paid the last of the taxes the estate accrued over the years, without a legal owner.” She gripped the sturdy back of her own chair, opting to stand. “And, the Viscount is still grateful for his son’s return. I believe that expedited the process.” 

A nod. “As it should.”

“I have you to thank for that, Aveline.” 

“Yes. You do.” She smirked, securing the stem of her glass. “Keep that in mind the next time I call you in for a favor. I think I’ll be able to make use of ‘Serah Hawke’ and her grand audiences with the Viscount.” Sigourney sighed; the other’s expression flared, right before a measured sip. “Have you been in it? Knowing Leandra, she’s already chosen the sitting room drapery and the wallpaper for the parlor.”

Her expression dimmed. “Briefly. To survey the extent of the damage.” The people of Hightown had stared at her as if she were their latest attraction, all covered mouths and narrowed eyes…. “In its current state, it isn’t in any condition to live in; the slavers who operated there, left quite the mess…Not that I don’t appreciate your assistance in the matter.” Another nod. Her friend had personally led a handpicked squad of guards to rid the estate of any lingering criminal presence. “It is fine, structurally. Everything else will simply require…effort.”

“Why not hire someone?” The glass was set down. “You have the coin.”

“I have the time.” Kirkwall did not know what to do with her; her family…She loosed her grip; sidestepped the chair; sat down again. “I’d like to do it myself.”

Aveline regarded her with sharp eyes, her mouth tightening with disagreement…before she leaned back in her chair. “You’ll need to work on being a noble. Enough time, and you’ll be in here, complaining like the rest of them.”

A thin smile.

She appreciated that. That the woman had formed her opinion, but _said_ something else.

Sigourney crossed her legs. “How are your wounds?”

“Well enough that I can put on the uniform—and the few aches I have are just nature taking its course.” She frowned; the captain waved it off. “I’ll take a few twinges. With what we’d been through…” a dark pause; Aveline shook her head. Relaxed a clenched hand. “Bran wasn’t too pleased with my ‘extended leave’ right in the middle of him showing off his shiny, new Fereldan, but when is that one ever happy?” 

“Any concerns?” 

“There’s been talk — but it’s just that. Talk.” A soft smile. “Don’t you worry: my position, here, as captain, is safe. And, some things are more important.” The mage looked to the bookcases behind her, not being able to meet that **_dedication_**. “You’re still at the Hanged Man?” A nod. “Have you talked to Varric?”

“Yes.” They had exchanged news; they had exchanged smiles— 

They did not talk about the Deep Roads. 

She thought of her own guilt, how it was mirrored so clearly. How the dwarf could barely look her in the eye…. “He still blames himself for his brother.”

“That’s fair.”

Sigourney glanced up. “If there is one thing I’ve learned, it is that one cannot take responsibility for a sibling’s actions.” Aveline said nothing; helped herself to more wine. Her fingers wrapped the curved arms of her chair. “Tomorrow…” 

“I know.” Tenuous. “Will you be all right?’

An unsuccessful smile. “…I don’t know.”

The captain laid both hands on her desk; straightened; leaned forward. “I don’t suspect Carver will abandon that high horse, of his, and leave the Gallows… The templars, here, aren’t ones to get involved if there isn’t a mage to go after—too good for secondary concerns, like the safety of the city.” Her tone brimmed with disapproval. “This may be out of turn, but I can’t say I’m surprised your brother is a good fit.” Silence. Copper brows furrowed. “I married a templar, Hawke—they aren’t all sadists out for blood. Maybe the Order will give Carver something to live up to.”

“Perhaps.”

Aveline sighed; fell back into her chair. “I won’t pretend to know how this feels for you. So.” A beat. “How are you? Really?” 

She swallowed thickly; inhaled sharply. “Brokenhearted…” the other’s eyes filled with compassion; a slow, steady breath. “I’ve helped many people: individuals. Families. I’ve had the opportunity to do so—but, at the expense of my own.” Another. “I realized that too late…and I failed. Failed to protect my own home while attempting to rebuild others’.” The guard was silent — and Sigourney _knew_ she understood. Her hands folded in her lap. “So, I will pick up the pieces.” An unwavering tone; bright, green eyes… “And I will do better.”

The other woman nodded — reached across her desk to grab the bottle of wine and refill both their glasses; Aveline raised hers, high.

“To ‘never again’.”

Sigourney smiled—her best attempt—cradling the glass between her fingers, red shifting precariously…before clinking it to hers.

* * *

 

A pane of glass creaked beneath her ministrations:

A strip of murky light peeked its way through.

Sigourney sighed. Deposited her rag into a tub of soapy water.

The room was miserable. Each window it harbored, covered, thick, with obstinate layers of soot and grime. Over an hour, and she’d only managed to clear a single panel, a weak beam of light immediately consumed by darkness, her only reward.

She worked by candlelight—spread them to every edge of the room—so she could see what she had to conquer. What came next.

The _estate_ is miserable. A mere shadow of former glory.

Chipped tiles. 

Webbed arches.

Everything broken. 

_Neglected_.

Her back and her knees; her neck and her arms, ached from bending and stooping and stretching—

But. With everything she _cleaned_ , she sees the estate is **her**.

Purposeless. Unwanted.

…For now.

There a bright side: 

_Hope_. 

It could be restored. Corrected.

She would fix this broken house. She would fix her broken family. 

_Time_ would heal the brokenness. _Time_ would heal what she could not.

…She hoped. 

Maker: she _prayed_.

The sound of something **_shifting_**.

_Clattering_ to the floor.

Her hand clutched the dagger at her thigh.

“Creators! I’m so sorry!” A frantic shadow kneeled, frighteningly pale fingers re-stacking a pile of tiles she’d set aside to be used again. “I brushed it, accidentally, and the entire thing toppled over…”

“Merrill?” Sigourney stepped from her ladder, the flames’ light illuminating a solitary figure in reds and yellows. “Is everything all right?” The elf nodded quickly. “Why are you here?”

“You weren’t at the Hanged Man. I worried.” A frown: she had fallen asleep against several, misaligned cabinets after thoroughly dusting the kitchen; Merrill turned towards the room’s entrance, tossed a finger in some vague direction. “I wanted to knock—but I wasn’t sure the door could bear it. It looked as unsure as the one to my home, so I thought it best to be careful. I’m sure I would have broken it completely or knocked it off its hinges, otherwise…”

“It’s fine.” She presented the sheath. “I thought you might have been a vengeful slaver, seeking to reclaim old territory.” A wan smile. “The former occupants were not happy with the transition. A few put up a fight.”

_Concern_. “Have more attacked you?”

“Not since I began repairs. But, I have been on guard.” A step forward; Sigourney cradled an elbow, revolving a tender wrist. “Is there something I can assist with, Merrill?”

“Oh—no. No, I don’t need anything. Not now, anyway. I was just,” her hands wrung anxiously, and she wondered, not for the first time, why the woman always seemed so nervous, around her; “looking for you — though, I suppose that part’s obvious with me being here, uninvited.” A frown. “Were you in the middle of cleaning?” She examined the room, its dysfunction, its **_filth_** …eyes falling on the solitary panel of clean glass. “You’re here, alone?” Earnest, green eyes. “In the dark?”

“There are candles.” She gestured to corners; smiled faintly. “Perhaps I imagined it more romantic: refurbishing rooms by candlelight.”

“It’s beautiful.” She cast a curious glance; Merrill shook her head. “Not what you can see—not the dirt and disorder… The things beyond ‘now’. What it will be after.” She stepped to a dusty column, laid a hand against it. “Its potential is beautiful.”

Sigourney stared— _stunned_ —another moment, between them, where her words were taken, and she was left speechless…A quiet marveling, when the elf spoke such a way. Those green orbs would wander, her voice became **different** , and… It was as if she knew it _all_.

As if she visited their world on a passing whim….

But then: Merrill released the column, turned to her quickly, worried and apologetic.

“I’m keeping you from your cleaning—I’ll just show myself out.”

“And, if you end up lost? Then, I would only worry.” 

There was a pleasure, seeing tight, indignant brows fight with the pink tinging her cheeks. “I’m not entirely helpless; I did manage finding you. If anything, a front door would be easier: it can’t just move around whenever it wants, can it?”

A smile. Sigourney turned away, examining the room, the jumping shadows. “I feel the same.” She felt the other’s eyes on her back; the _question_. “I see potential, in this room; in this estate—that it can be more than it is. Better.” Her second chance; she faced her again. “You should stay. I’d enjoy the company.”

Shock erupted across the elf’s features, as if she wouldn’t have expected the invitation in a thousand years; another brisk nod. “I’ll help clean!” Her slender brows furrowed. “I know I’m not the best at it — my house was always a mess whenever you came — but…” she bit her lip, met her eyes again, “I’d like to help you. If I can.”

“You don’t have to, Merrill.” 

“I want to!” Blurted. She looked away, bashfully. “You’ve…been so kind. From the moment you visited, and proposed those wonderful dinners, I’ve wanted to find a way to repay you. But I was never able to…That night, or any other.” Merrill frowned, turning those honest green orbs to her again. “But this place…is important to you.” An unconscious shift. Closer. “Let me return the favor.”

She did not know what to do with that _sincerity_ ; she did not know what to do with the way the other’s eyes flickered in the candlelight…. A glance elsewhere. “If you truly returned the favor, this estate would remain the way it is. I’ve done nothing to improve the condition of your home since you arrived in the city.” And she’d been so **_self_** _-_ ** _righteous_** —so **_dissatisfied_** with what the other was allotted… “Does your house leak, still, when it rains?” A slow nod. “I’ve patched roofs, before. If you are intent on doing this, that is the least I could do.”

“It isn’t a competition. And I would never ask you to do that. The effort, alone…”

“I am no stranger to hard work.”

Merrill smiled. “No. But you’re a noble, now: you’ll have to mind appearances.” A hint of mischief. “What will the other elves think seeing a human fixing my roof?”

“What will they think?” Low—as if she were parting with a secret; a beat. The elf colored. “There’s a broom in the corner.” A step past her. “I planned to sweep after scrubbing the windows, but the task proved more difficult than I originally intended.”

“You have a new staff.” Sigourney turned to see Merrill already behind her, the elf admiring the magical item resting beside the broom. “Did you find it in on your expedition?” A verbal affirmation; Merrill reached out to it, conquering the strange metal of its shaft with curious fingers—shivering. “It’s breathtaking…”

“From what I understand, it has quite the dark tale attached to it.” 

“Most pretty things do…” the tips of her fingers lingered…before switching to the handle of the broom. She considered the room. The windows. The ladder. “I’ll start at the far end so I don’t get dust everywhere while you’re working.”

She nodded, sure the woman was concerned for nothing—but grateful. “Thank you, Merrill.” 

“Happy to help.” A bright smile that made her linger…

Sigourney turned herself away. Recovered her cloth from the tub. Ascended the rickety ladder, once more.

The occasional groan of glass.

The idle scratchings of a broom.

“Have you been through all of the estate?” A random inquiry. The other’s voice traveled from the other side of the room, mingling with gentle sweeps.

“I’ve been through most of it. I wanted to assess the damage of each room before I started to clean. Know what I was getting myself into.” The mage relented in her efforts; eyed a distorted image in a cracked pane. “I’ve…yet to visit the cellars. The low spaces…” she didn’t know _why_ she kept doing this. Surrendered these **_weaknesses_** whenever the elf was around. Maker—it’d been _weeks_ , and her heart still raced at the thought of _shadows_. Merrill watched her silently, delicate fingers clutching the handle of the broom with worry. Her jaw tensed. “It is a nuisance.”

“It isn’t.” Certain. _Quick_. “You’re always harder on yourself than you should be.”

Her brows fell. “I don’t believe I am hard enough.”

The elf faced her fully—an expression that said she could not _understand_. “How can you say that?” 

“Because I am in my familial estate, without my family.”

Silence. 

Merrill looked away. Stared at the floor.

Sigourney closed her eyes.

Why — why was it always so difficult between them?

Could they not have _one_ civil conversation?

She wanted to let the other woman _in_ …

Odd.

Worrisome.

She had never had that feeling before.

Not like this.

Sigourney abandoned the rag at the head of the ladder, descending its wooden treads, to rest against a wall. A breath. Another. “It’s her nameday.” Merrill’s eyes shot up from the floor; the mage crossed her arms. Smiled thinly. “My sister’s…” a _vice_ —her chest; her throat, “Bethany.” Her lips pressed together tightly. “Today… It would have been her nameday.”

“Why aren’t you with your family?” _Before_ — a look. 

**_Regret_**. 

Merrill covered her mouth. As if afraid of what else might be freed from it.

Sigourney straightened, leaving the sureness of the wall. They had already had the ‘pity’ conversation; she would not allow another. “Carver will not see me — though, that is hardly unusual. If anything, it keeps with tradition.” She could not ebb the bitterness that seeped into her tone. Could not stop the rushing _guilt_ that came after. “They were twins.”

Somber recognition. “Then, today…”

Sigourney nodded. “Before he joined the templars, he would drink on this day… and not come home, after.” She wondered what he did now. Accost mages? The thought was too **_painful_** …She bit the inside of her cheek. “As for Mother. On this day…it is better if she is alone. And I am away.” The elf let her hand fall, looked at her with large, sorrow-filled eyes. She raised a hand. “It’s all right, Merrill. We all deal with this day, the best we can manage.” She paused…walked to the middle of the room—took it all in, once more. “That is why I’m here. Alone. This…” her voice broke without her permission, “is my gift to her.”

More silence. Moments where the other woman could only stare at her. Not knowing what to do. 

Not knowing what to _say_. 

But—

There just…

A quiet **_awe_**.

Until—

Merrill met her in the center, abandoned the broom to take her hand, led her in sitting down. “Tell me about your sister.”

An easy smile—and, Maker—it felt like _ages_. “She was kind. Good. She was so good…” she felt an ache in her heart, a twinge that never truly went away. It _hurt_ to speak of her in the past tense; it _hurt_ to realize she would never wake to see her, again. “Bethany…She was not like me: she was…warm. People took to her, wanted to be near…Yet, she’d go out of her way to make me feel included. Force me from books, and bring me along.” She had been the _glue_. The one to pull her from her shell and say nothing was wrong. “But,” her expression thinned; “she was conflicted. Because of her magic.”

Merrill held her hand, still, and Sigourney wondered with what was more concerning: that she did not notice or that she did not mind. “You were both mages?” 

A nod. “We trained with our father. On the outskirts of the Wilds.” It was almost violent, the way her words invoked scenes of those times; snapshots of pain and exhaustion and _control_ …. “Bethany hated those sessions. She was talented, but lacked the will; wished nothing more than to be rid of her abilities.”

The elf shook her head. “I couldn’t imagine that—a life without magic. It would be like losing an eye or a limb.”

“She…wanted to be normal.” A beat. “For the sake of our family.”

Green eyes. _Searching_. “Is that what you want?”

“I want to fix the things I have broken.” The past could not be altered; the future could not be predicted. The present _had_ to be her focus. “I know what I am. I do not see magic as a curse, but as a responsibility. Good things can come from those who wield it—but only when they are the recipients of proper training.” Merrill looked to the cracks in the tiles. And even without words, she knew the other thought her response ‘diplomatic’. A frown. “I don’t know what my sister thought of as ’normal’ — marriage? Children?” Her brows dipped. “Our father was fortunate enough to find a partner willing to give up everything for their relationship. See past his lot as a mage. The family I had—the one I have now—is the result of it — but, it was selfishness, still.” 

She’d _seen_ the ramifications; experienced them, firsthand, each time she heard the spike of father’s voice or her mother in tears. 

It wasn’t _viable_. An apostate’s love—

‘ **Normal** ’.

Always _running_ ….

Adding _more_ **burdens**.

“It’s never that simple.” _Disapproval_. Those green eyes narrowed. “I’ve said that before—that your opinions are too severe. You should look to the world, first—its rules and borders: the ones where mages can’t have what others take freely. And, what society we live in that that is allowed.”

“So, it isn’t about accountability, so much as what one deserves?” Dangerous. She did not believe a life should be led on what could or couldn’t be had. “If mages wish to be treated better, they must stop advocating they are the same as anyone else.” Her brows fell sharply. “We are not the same. We never _will_ be. Accept that, and we move forward.”

“To a larger cage. ” A dark look. “There’s little people fear more, than those who are different — or did you think my people liked being made to wander, never knowing a home?”

Sigourney frowned: from the comment—from her _speechlessness_. And, what did she know about the Dalish? Nothing so sure that she could retaliate with any certainty.

‘ _Retaliate_ ’—?

When had it become a **_war_**? 

A sigh. “Why is it, conversing with you, never turns out as it should?”

“How should it be?” Green orbs flicked up to meet hers.

She stumbled. Looked away. “…Easier.”

Their hands were still joined. She flipped her own—brought Merrill’s closer. There were scars, there, since the day they met, thin, white criss-crossing things that hooked around her fingers and hid beneath leather wrappings. “What happened?” 

She trailed a new scar, pink and uneven in a way that held no intent, carved from the back of her thumb to the tip of her nail.

“Progress.” Her voice shook with fierce determination, a strength her body did not seem to hold. “The same that happened to your own body when you went down into the Deep Roads.”

Sigourney frowned, a shared discomfort from the thought of that place and the marks the elf had seen. “I know you lack restorative magic—but, why not use a salve to aid the healing?”

‘Or come to me’. But now, it was too late. And there was another mark she could not alter.

“I didn't want them to disappear. Not completely.” Her eyes fell to the crooked lines with a solemn sort of deference, “Scars are beautiful. They show one’s survived.” Merrill freed her hand from her grasp, only to clasp her cheek. “You’re getting your color back. You were so pale, that first night…”

It was hard to meet her eyes. “Yes.”

She saw the dip of her chin. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” the halt _confounded_ her, “don’t understand it. That night.” Furrowed brows. “Why you decided to stay.”

There was no obligation — the elf barely _knew_ her.

_Yet_ — 

“It was your eyes.” Sigourney looked up— _questioning_. “In that room, away from your family…Your eyes were the saddest I’d ever seen.” Her touch was steady and sure. “Sadder than mine.”

“Merrill…” and, nothing else. She. 

Could not know what to _do_ with **that**.

It felt **_precarious_**.

Sigourney placed her hand on top of the elf’s; drew it away, to take within her own. “The relationship I have with my family is not the only I wish to mend.” Her gaze fell to the scarred hand—before meeting her eyes. “Could it be better between us?” Merrill looked startled, the two of them close enough that she could see every line of surprise etched into the other’s features. “I’ve become preoccupied; neglected my promise. I wanted to share a day with you. Take you out to the Wounded Coast.”

The elf shook her head—and it couldn’t have been more immediate. “You’ve been busy. I should be the least of your concerns, right now.”

“You will never be the least.” Again. Pink staining the other’s cheeks. “I want to spend time with you, Merrill. Your friendship…is important to me.” She could not have accounted for how much. How much the other woman would involve herself in her life. “Would you be free the day after tomorrow? It would give me time to prepare a meal.” 

A series of nods. “Should I bring anything? Oh—I have tea, now!” She frowned. “But, I suppose that doesn’t travel very well…”

“I’ll find a jar for you to put it in: tea will be lovely with the air and the sun.”

Merrill smiled, a grateful curve of the lips that made her feel _wonderful_. “And the company. Another reason to help clean.” 

The mage sighed, pulling the other woman with her as she rose to her feet. “I see you’re set upon it.”

Another smile, the elf saying nothing as she made her way back to the far corner of the room.

Sigourney turned to climb the ladder, again— _smiled_  when she heard a light, happy hum, _fill the silence_ , along with each sweep of the broom.


End file.
